While Mortals Sleep
by linmarie
Summary: Finished...As Christmas approaches, hidden dangers bring Harm and Mac face to face with their own brand of wondering love.
1. Between the Lines

WHILE MORTALS SLEEP

Genre: Romance/Angst with more Action/Drama (I hope) after Ch. 1.

Rating: PG 13 to be safe (for some language and maybe themes). 

Disclaimer: Characters and incidents from JAG are the property of Donald P. Belisario Bellisarius Productions/Paramount/CBS. This story is strictly non-profit, just a way to share the fun and pay tribute to the joys and frustrations of JAG-watching. No copyright infringement is intended. The other characters are figments of my imagination and not meant to represent any one living or dead, so any resemblances are purely coincidental.

Spoilers: Primarily When the Bough Breaks and The Killer. But references to the Pilot and some other episodes, particularly in season 7. 

Author's Notes: The title of the story is a phrase from "O Little Town of Bethlehem." While I've been in Italy, I've never been to Naples. I've never been on a carrier either, though some facts here are from research in news sources. I have not seen all the episodes of JAG. Any idiocies herein are entirely my own. 

Feedback: I'd really like it. This is my first fan-fiction attempt.

WHILE MORTALS SLEEP

Chapter One: Between the Lines

Scene One: Posta Prioritaria 

Naples, Italy

Afternoon 

3 December

The postcard catches my eye—the view of the bay is just what I see from where I am standing. Minus the postcard rack, of course. The same curve of land and expanse of water, with Vesuvius dominating sea and sky. But the water in the picture is that odd turquoise you see only in postcards. The bay in front of me is darker--almost indigo. I dig some change out of my pocket and buy the card. I can always drop it in the mail on the way to the airfield.

There's enough of a chill to make me glad I've got my jacket, but all around me Naples still wears the colors of summer. These narrow streets are as crowded and noisy as a carnival—or a carrier. A little further on, a display in a shop window catches my eye—a leather aviator-style jacket a lot like mine, surrounded by a display of purses and gloves. A little hand-lettered card in the corner of the window assures me they speak English . Stepping in, I inhale the rich scent of new leather. A pleasure right up there with the smells of good cigars, real coffee, and the perfume worn by a certain Marine I know.

The shop is so small, it makes me feel enormous. Not so much a bull in a china shop as an elephant in a shoebox. The proprietor, on the other hand, is perfectly proportioned to her shop. And perfectly proportioned in other ways, too. A tiny, fine-boned woman with hennaed hair, she is as elegant as the gloves in the window. "Bongiorno. May I help you?" Her English is half Naples, half Oxford and her voice has a smoky quality that makes the simple question sound like a proposition. 

"Uh, yes," I manage, pointing to the jacket in the window, "How much are you asking?" Her eyes travel over the lines of my jacket, resting, just for a moment, at the level of my shoulders. Then she looks up at me, tilts her head to the side, and smiles, "But surely you do not need another?"

"Uh, no. It's for a friend." She smiles knowingly as my gestures indicate the size I am looking for. She pulls out several and after a little discussion I decide on a jacket the color of espresso-- the leather is supple, creamy to the touch, the top-stitching perfect. It's a pilot's jacket, but the lines are softened somehow. I manage to get her down to three-quarters of the original asking price before I cave. She knows how badly I want that jacket. 

Moments later, I am sitting in one of these little cafes by the waterfront. Nearby, a guy leans against the stucco wall, playing a concertina. Nothing I recognize. Neapolitan folk songs, I guess. I order a coffee and take out my pen.

__

Hey Mac. Well, it's a start. The concertina wheezes, then breaks into a jaunty tune I've heard before. A long time ago. 

And suddenly I am sitting at another café, further down the waterfront. Kate Pike is sitting across from me, in civvies—one of those silk blouses that cling in all the right places. And she is leaning toward me, laughing, holding up her wine glass and saying… I can't remember really. Something that didn't matter even then. We had just finished up the Board of Inquiry business on the Arutti murder. Kate was unwinding, —easy, playful, bold. Oh, she didn't put up with any shit from flyboys, all right. But she sure knew how to say no without shutting the door completely…and eventually, we bent the regs all to hell. 

"Red light, Commander." But it's Mac's voice I hear in my head and it's her eyes I see, smiling out of her most serious Mac-Marine face. I'm glad we're beyond that traffic light stuff. At least, I think I am. 

After Kate, I swore the best way to survive was to keep my women in two categories—available civilians and untouchable comrades. All right, there was Jordan. Major infraction of my own regs. After that, I swore I'd keep my hands off any woman in uniform. Not my mind of course. Though I do try. But even at the office sometimes we'll be joking around—Mac and I—and suddenly I am imagining her leaning across some table in a silk blouse, those generous lips of hers slightly parted…you get the idea. 

Okay, well, more than that, really. Hell, when I walked into my hotel room the other day the first thing I felt was a hint of steam in the air, then the smell of gardenias. Then I caught a glimpse of very female legs, tawny skin with that fresh-from-the-shower glow, and dark hair, tousled and wet. And just for a heartbeat, I thought that Mac--who's always finishing my sentences--had somehow guessed my favorite fantasy and brought it to life. She is, after all, clairvoyant.

But it was Manetti. I nearly choked. This beat all for red-light, career-busting, weird-ass behavior on the part of a female officer. It felt like a trap. But she was cool, almost unruffled. All in all, she was more matter of fact than apologetic about her invasion. That's how it felt. My fantasy turned inside out and upside down by a usually competent and law-abiding junior officer. What was she thinking? 

The next thing you know she was telling me I was too "old" to be the serial killer. 

That stung. When I walk into a room, women still open their eyes a little wider and do that hair-arranging thing. You know—where the long-haired ones brush the backs of the fingers of one hand up under their hair, lifting it from their shoulders, then letting it fall. Even the ones with the little-boy cuts brush the tips of their fingers along the side of their head just under the crown. It's code. And yeah, it's good for the ego. But it is also the same, over and over. When did that game lose its charm?

__

Hey Mac. I look at the greeting and add, _Bet ya wish you were here. _Voices from the next table catch my attention. Two clean-shaven men with blue-black hair, one fiftyish and pudgy, a sort of latte-colored Pillsbury Doughboy, the other a wiry, thin-faced guy hardly out of his teens. Whatever they're speaking, it's not Italian. Sounds a heck of a lot like farsi. Wish Mac was here. She'd know. Not only that, but she'd understand what they're saying. 

Whatever it is, they are leaning close in toward one another. Before I turn my eyes back to the postcard, I notice how the younger fellow spits out his words. He is drumming the tips of his fingers on the table-top as if it were a computer keyboard. The older man speaks more slowly, and somehow I get the impression that there is ice under the bourbon smoothness of that voice. 

Hey Mac. Bet ya wish you were here. Pizza and gelati everywhere. "Sea Hawk." I could swear I heard one of those guys say the name of the ship. Probably one of those tricks your mind plays. Just because Mac's on the Sea Hawk and not here. But I can't shake the feeling that I heard what I heard. And it's not a good feeling. 

__

By now you've probably got that ward room under Marine control. As I finish my sentence, a fluttering movement--something red--pulls my eye in another direction. It's a woman's skirt, longish and in some light-weight fabric the wind toys with. And it's not really red, but one of those colors between pink and red that women always have fancy names for. The skirt lifts and falls, revealing shapely legs. My eyes follow the line of the skirt to where it clings to the smooth curve of her hip. Then I take in the lithe movement of her arm as she adjusts a filmy scarf she wears wrapped over her short dark hair. The ends of her scarf are flung back over her shoulders, in a way that gives her a sort of Middle-Eastern look. She stands with her back to me, gazing out over the water, with her chin lifted a little. 

My throat tightens and I feel a kind of thickness under my breastbone where my heart should be. Then it starts beating again. And quickly. Before I can call out her name, she turns away from the water and toward me.

Her large dark eyes sweep over and past me. And—after I swallow hard--I have to laugh at myself. Of course it's not Mac. She's on the USS Sea Hawk in the Indian Ocean. And it looks like she'll be on her current TAD more than "only two weeks." Between the war games and the recent mobilization, not to mention mountains of red tape and forms in triplicate, she'll be lucky to be back in Georgetown for Christmas. 

The woman who is not Mac is looking for someone, her face pensive. Then suddenly it is lit up from within by the most stunning smile. All I can think of is one of those Madonnas they have in the churches here, with a hundred votive candles glowing all around it. 

"Nikos!" she calls. "'Vanni!" A little boy in a sailor suit—the kind with short pants—breaks away from a man in a fisherman sweater and jeans. "Mamamama!" The child explodes into her arms as she leans down to scoop him up. The man pauses to let the child soak up his mother's caress. As she lifts the boy, the man—I guess it's his father—takes a few quick steps forward and pulls them both into his arms. They are holding the child up together, the boy nuzzling his mother's cheek as the father's mouth seeks hers. When they meet, it's a kiss of the sizzling sort. Then she draws her head back a little and gazes into his eyes. "Nikos." She says his name like a blessing. Of course, he kisses her again.

This "Nikos" is not much taller than the woman in the scarf, but he's got very broad shoulders and slim hips. His cropped black hair is a crown of thick curls with a hint of silver just by his temples. He pushes the scarf back with a gentle movement of one hand, running his fingers through her hair, while with the other hand he still helps to support the boy. For some reason, suddenly I have a lump in my throat the size of a helo and my eyes tear up like I'm facing into the wind on the fantail. 

I scrawl a couple more lines, pay the waiter, and take off for the hotel.

__

Hey Mac. Bet ya wish you were here. Pizza and gelati everywhere. By now you've probably got that ward room under Marine control. Think of me when you're up on the fantail. Hurry back, Sundance. As always, Harm.

Scene Two: Special Delivery

Aboard the Freighter Jade Mountain

In Port on the Gulf of Aden

Just before dawn, 5 December

The travellers board in blue darkness, carrying little luggage. The man in Western clothes—black jeans, black turtleneck, black leather jacket--is bearded, with deep-set eyes. His companions wear flowing robes and kaffiyeh. The three are met by a man with markedly Asian features under his mariner's cap. He presses the palms of his hands together in greeting, but does not bow. He speaks directly to the bearded one, his voice half-hushed but loud enough for the others to hear. "You are just in time, my friends. We have orders to move into position tomorrow. We shall have our target before the week is out." 

The bearded man nods. The taller of his two companions says, "As the Wasp has arrived, can we assume he carries his Sting?"

The mariner nods. "Safely aboard. We have just received most excellent shipment of carpets. Among them, one most precious from Pakistan."

The bearded man says, "Do we yet have a room in which to display it?"

"Mustafa watches, my friend. He sends word soon."

In the hold, deep in a box of rolled carpets, one black-market special American-made Stinger.

Scene Three: Ship to Shore

Dawn, December 7th 

Pearl Harbor Rembrance Day

The Roberts Residence

Lt. Bud Roberts smiled as he clicked on the icon signaling an incoming message. 

****

Hey Sir, you there?

Sure am. How's it goin' Coates?

Busy day, Sir. Visiting Navy and State Dept. brass. A wreath ceremony on the flight deck with a brass quintet. Some journalists flown in for sound bites and photo op. One of them's staying on, to do some sort of photo essay.

Anybody I know? 

I don't think so, Sir, but he's pretty famous. Gray Caldwell. Won the Pulitzer for his book on child soldiers in Africa and South America.

Yeah, I saw that one. What's he like?

Hot, Sir. In an older-guy sort of way. But quiet. And he has these eyes. Gray with little flecks of blue and green. They feel like he's looking right into you. 

Got a crush, Coates?

No sir. But it wouldn't matter if I did. You should see him look at the Colonel—like a homesick sailor coming into port.

Mmm. Keep me posted on that one.

Sure thing. Hey, how's little AJ?

Doing great. I can't wait for you to see him.

I'd like that, Sir. And Harriet?

Pretty busy these days. She's been shopping and decorating like this is the first Christmas in the world.

You're one lucky man, Sir. 

I sure am…. Hey, how's the Christmas shopping on the Sea Hawk?

Not so bad, Sir. We're processing the paper work for a new round of vendors today. Sounds like good stuff—some hand-crafted. Contracts with guys from Dubai, New Delhi, and Naples. Odd though. The guy from Naples—his name doesn't sound Italian. Farak or something like that.

Hope they've done a good security check.

Oh they have, Sir. They run these guys through a sieve. By the way, how's the Commander?

Growly. Mutters under his breath a lot—mostly stuff about Marines dodging their fair share of stupid onshore cases. How're you and the Colonel getting on?

She's a stickler for details but great to work for. Most of the female junior officers are already looking to her as a mentor, Sir. She really listens.

Yeah. We sure miss her here. Last night the Commander came over for dinner. When AJ saw him he yelled "Unca Harm!" and grabbed the Commander's leg, then he swung around it, looking behind him and calling, "Auntie Mac???"

That's sweet. She's got little AJ's picture on her office desk. Hey, I don't mean to gossip or anything, but she's got a picture of the Commander, too.

In the office?

No, in her quarters. Just a snapshot. He's in civvies, standing beside a yellow Stearman.

Yeah, that's his. He takes her up now and then. The Colonel, I mean.

Maybe that explains it.

Explains what, Coates?

The Colonel. She's generally pretty cheerful, but now and then, when she thinks I'm not looking, her shoulders just sag a little and her eyes go kinda sad. Think she's pining away for the Commander, Sir?"

Red light, Coates. We'd better not go there.

Sorry, Sir. But there's another thing…

In his mind's eye Bud could see Coates' grin. He smiled and tapped in:

Okay. I'll bite. What other thing?"

She got this postcard, Sir. From Naples. I couldn't help but see the message when I sorted her mail. It didn't say anything much. Dumb, really. But it was from the Commander. Maybe it was code. Anyway, when the Colonel read it, she got all teary-eyed. When I asked her if she was okay she about bit my head off…

Scene Four: Caveat Emptor (Let the Buyer Beware)

Visiting Concessions Booths

USS Sea Hawk

Morning of December 9th

Barak al-Barak sank his considerable bulk into the folding chair behind the table that served as the main counter for his concession booth. He surveyed his goods. The Committee had done an excellent job. Everything hand-crafted, from the turquoise bracelets to the silver torques. Nothing to raise alarm. Nothing at all. Stupid Americans. Looking always for the material, for what is outside. Sniffing for powders, x-raying gadgets, waiting for the twitch of a facial muscle. But what is most dangerous a man may carry invisibly, in his heart, in his brain. He looked at this young companion. 

"Call me Ali," he had said. Barak knew that it was not his name. Perhaps he had no name. They knew him—they all knew him—simply as "the Cipher." The zero, which had come from the East, made all this technological world possible. But the Infidels saw it as nothing. A lack, a gap, an absence. The thin young man was watching the first customers file into the room. His eyes missed nothing. Already he was looking for the gap he could slip through. He did not even need to bring aboard a laptop that would arouse suspicions. He could get one here. All he needed was on this ship and in his head. Just a little sequence, a tiny infected strand of mathematical DNA. There is only the One. All else is naught. The Cipher smiled.

Scene Five: Blue,Blue Christmas

Col. Sarah MacKenzie's Quarters

On the USS Seahawk

10 December 

Twenty-three days, seven hours and fifty-three minutes. So far that's how long my two weeks TAD on the Sea Hawk have lasted. It may be at least another ten days before the new chief legal officer comes aboard. Several of the paralegals have suggested that I ought to consider staying out the tour. But I need to get back. 

__

As always, Harm. This is no place to sort things out. It's Harm's world—not just the tomcats and the flight deck--but everything here--the kneeknockers and narrow passageways, the noise, the jokes in the ward room... 

Every time I brush against the arm of some flyboy in a flight suit, I might just as well be back at JAG, trying not to blush when Harm's hand touches mine as he hands me a file. When I open the door from my quarters, I keep seeing Harm standing there with our float coats and ear guards. Chivalry, squid style. 

When I put in my earplugs and lie down to sleep at night, the ship's hum is all around me--I feel its vibrations on my skin like kisses. I guess that you could say I have it bad. I'm in love with him, my heart whispers, maybe a thousand times a day. 

__

As always, Harm. But he's oceans away. I am still hoping to see him at Christmas, though… and that makes me luckier than most. Nearly six thousand women and men on this ship and most of them are missing someone, have someone waiting and praying for them somewhere. The only way they'll be home for Christmas is in their dreams. I think I'll ask Gray—he's got a harmonica with him-- if he knows that Christmas song, the country one about a "blue, blue Christmas without you." It ought to be our holiday theme song around here. 

__

As always, Harm. Sometimes I let myself imagine Harm strumming his guitar, singing to me as if I were the only woman in the world. Sometimes I let myself remember dancing in his arms, his hand warm against the small of my back. Sometimes I imagine waking up to find him lying beside me—in my bedroom, in his, on some god-forsaken hillside in country, by a cozy hearthfire in some place I've never been. And I know that every last one of them at JAG has seen the reflection of my fantasies—that hunger showing in my eyes like tears.

Even Gray has noticed. After I had quoted Harm half a dozen times in the course of our first conversation in the ward room, Gray asked. "This 'Harm'—who is he?"

"Commander Rabb. My partner." Dammit, I probably blushed.

"Oh." I swear Gray looked disappointed. "I thought…I mean Petty Officer Coates implied that you were…unattached…at the moment."

"Oh, not that kind of partner. We work together at JAG. We've been a team for a long time. You know how it is. You get to acting like an old married couple. All of the habits, none of the privileges."

Gray laughed. It sounded like relief. "Then, Colonel Sarah, I do not need to fear the vengeance of an angry commander if I happen to tell his partner that she has most beautiful eyes?"

I know I blushed. And muttered something noncommittal. Seeing my uneasiness, Gray backed off. On safer ground, we discussed his photo essay on Christmas at sea. And his next "mission"—documenting the suffering of Afghani children born into a world of land mines and hunger and perpetual war. He was slated to accompany a group of MSF doctors setting up a new pediatric clinic in some remote town. I thought of Bud. And of the news broadcast that made it seem like there was no danger to the boy he wanted to save. Oh yes, a few landmines, no problem. The villagers know where they are. Every last landmine? All the unexploded cluster bombs? How could a reporter who'd been in country fail to notice the maimed children? How could a journalist who'd done his homework not know the bitter statistics? 

Gray and I have already found that we differ on many things. Not least of them the role of the U.S. military in various hot spots around the world. But we both find the suffering of children intolerable. I think Harm would like this man. I know that I do. 

It always comes back to Harm. Whatever the future brings, I want him in my life. I'll be Sundance to his Butch Cassidy any day. In a way, I feel like I know Harm inside and out. I can finish his sentences, for heaven's sake. But I honestly can't tell whether the warmth that's there so often in his eyes is kindness or something more. 

__

As always. He's been there for me through so much, seen so much of me—angry, scared, competitive, stupid, drunk. I know I'll never find another friend like him. Lovers are two for a penny, but best friends, priceless. 

So, if one fine day, he came bearing roses and kisses, would it be worth risking it all? Oh yes, my heart whispers. No way, my head shouts. 

__

As always. Not a sister, not a lover, I keep drifting in this limbo that feels too awful much like wanting that one damn drink that will bring my life down around me like a direct hit.

__

As always, Harm. Sometimes I think that it will never be better than it was here, the one time Harm actually admitted outright in so many words that he was glad to have me with him. As usual, I read too much into it. I certainly remember it too fervently. That's one of the funny things about being best friends—the words and gestures can mean so many things. There is no protocol. No signpost to say, "This is where we are." All you ever have is a moment that's gone before you know it. And you never get it back. 

Get a grip, Marine. 


	2. In Plain Sight

WHILE MORTALS SLEEP 2

Disclaimer: Characters and information from JAG are the property of Donald P. Bellasario /Belisarius Productions/Paramount/CBS. This story is strictly non-profit, just a way to share the fun and pay tribute to the joys and frustrations of JAG-watching. No copyright infringement is intended. The other characters and incidents are figments of my imagination and not meant to represent anyone living or dead, so any resemblance is purely coincidental. Any idiocies herein are entirely my own.

Chapter Two: In Plain Sight

Scene One: Photo Op

Ship's Store and Visiting Concessions Booths

USS Sea Hawk

Late Afternoon, 10 December 

A few more shots of sailors buying gifts for their children and sweethearts, and he thought he'd wrap it up for the day. Swinging round to catch a burly Marine sergeant studying a shelf of Teddy Bears in Sea Hawk T-shirts, Gray got in five good shots. Surely one would show the mixture of sadness, uncertainty, and delight that flickered over the guy's face. 

As the sergeant moved toward the checkout, Gray spotted another Marine, the delightful Colonel Sarah Mackenzie. She was chatting with Amitabah, who was lifting first one and then another of the small lacquered papier-mache boxes that took up about a quarter of his shelf space. "Very fine," Amitibah crooned, "wonderful gift item. Very light for the shipping." Gray watched her choose a turquoise box, with intricate designs traced in swirls of indigo, dots of deep rose, and very fine lines of gold. 

"Christmas shopping, Colonel Sarah?"

She flashed him one of her dazzling smiles. "Yes. This is for Chloe. This and a CD--Great Big Sea's 'Sea of No Cares.' I did most of my shopping on line, but I couldn't resist Amitibah's treasures. What about you, Gray? Do you get to have holidays, or does your argus eye never rest?"

"Can't count the number of Christmases I have spent in war zones, epicenters, and airport lounges. So I tend to celebrate now—the instant, this day, breathing—whenever I can."

"Ah, Mr. Gray Caldwell, " Amitibah broke in, "Perhaps you would care to celebrate now by buying one of my fine boxes? Or, perhaps, a silk scarf for the lady in your life?"

Gray laughed. "Tell you what. I don't think that I am ready to buy anything just yet, but would you rent me a scarf, for say, half an hour?"

"Rent? No problem." Amitibah shrugged. "Seven dollars American?"

"Three." Looking over the neatly folded scarves, Gray chose a rose-colored silk edged in gold thread. As he shook it out, Mac noticed that it was embroidered in a pattern of tiny gold leaves.

"Now," Gray said, "I just need a model." He looked around in apparent perplexity, pressed his lips together, and sighed loudly. "Alas, Mr. Barak over there is too large. And Amitibah is too small. But, ah, the Lady Colonel is just right. Would she oblige her humble photographer-servant by posing for a few minutes?"

Mac laughed and shook her head, protesting that the scarf would look silly with her uniform. Minutes later Gray was arranging the scarf around her face. As he flung one end of it over her shoulder, his hand brushed lightly against her arm and his eyes were searching her face intently. For the perfect angle?

"You will see, Colonel Sarah, how I can hide the uniform in plain sight. An angle, a shadow, and you are no longer the Marine, but simply and gloriously the lady." He touched the tips of his fingers to the top of her forehead, "Please look down now, just a little. That's it. Now turn your face away from me, just a bit, toward that lamp. Fine. Fine. Now," he reached out and gently lifted her chin a fraction of an inch, "look far away, searching for that ship on the horizon, your homecoming sailor if you will." Just then, the faintest of smiles lit her face. He began snapping. "Excellent. Excellent."

As Gray swung the camera around, in the next booth Mr. Barak al-Barak turned his face away, as if to avoid being caught by the lens. A small thing. But Mac noticed. 

Scene Two: Course Correction

JAG Headquarters, Falls Church, VA

Admiral Chegwidden's Office

Early afternoon, December 11th

Harm smiled at the thought of the flat, gaily-wrapped package he'd left in Mac's office just minutes ago. It was the first move of "Operation Mistletoe." He hoped that the enlargement of what he thought of as their "Butch and Sundance portrait" would remind Mac of the best moments of their time together in country and let her know just how much he valued their partnership. And he hoped that maybe he'd get up the nerve to tell her just how beautiful she was to him—even in combat fatigues.

"It looks like you will have to make a detour on your way to the Coral Sea, Commander." The Admiral's face was closed, his voice even.

"A detour, Sir?" The Admiral's remark had apparently pulled Rabb back to the moment—the Commander straightened and made eye contact.

"It'll be on ZNN within the hour. It seems that during a routine intercept of a freighter in her zone, the USS Blue Ridge was rammed by the cargo ship, Scheherazade. Ripped a gash in the Blue Ridge's starboard hull. The damage is not crippling, but it is significant. It's too soon to tell whether it was an accident or act of aggression. But the inquiries and paperwork are going to take a raft of lawyers. You will report to the Blue Ridge ASAP to oversee the preliminary investigation, then meet with the area response team on the USS Sea Hawk."

"The Sea Hawk, Sir?" Now he really had the Commander's attention. Chegwidden managed to suppress a smile at the note of hope in Rabb's voice.

"Yes, Commander. This has all the makings of an international incident and Colonel Mackenzie's got her hands full just now. They've had a rash of petty thefts on the Sea Hawk—mostly small stuff, but a laptop and a video game are missing. And the Colonel has been invited to accompany a group of Marines on a special mission into the hinterlands of Afghanistan—they need her language skills. To complicate things, this morning one of the Sea Hawk's Com officers was found dead in his quarters—wound to the base of the brain from a stiletto-like instrument. The blow took a hell of a lot of force. I just talked to Colonel Mackenzie, who sends her greetings, by the way." Rabb's face remained grave, but he nodded in acknowledgement of the greeting. "We feel it best to let you do the prelims on the Blue Ridge, then take charge of the Sea Hawk murder investigation. SECNAV wants this thing handled with kid gloves. And, according to Webb…" At the mention of Webb's name, the Commander failed to suppress an audible groan.

The Admiral cleared his throat. "According to Webb, intelligence sources in the region report an upsurge of activity on the part of The Committee."

"The Committee, Sir?"

"Webb's sources peg the Committee as a rogue group operating out of Marseilles and Naples. Model themselves on the corporate structure of Al-Quaida. Many on The Committee have Islamic roots, but there are ties to North Korea and to independent weapons dealers as well."  
  
"Their aim, Sir?"

"We are not sure. The best guess is a new brand of terrorism, undertaken as much for gain as for ideology. Oh, and Commander, just to complicate things further, SECNAV has refused to revoke the visitors' passes for a group of doctors on their way to do some relief work west of Kabul. Part of SECNAV's PR plan for the season: show the Navy cooperating with civilian groups in relief and rebuilding in Afghanistan. The doctors arrive on the Sea Hawk on the 14th. I don't think they'll get in your way, but I wanted to give you heads up on it."

"Thank you , Sir. And, Sir?"

"Yes, Commander?"

"This special mission that Ma—Colonel Mackenzie has volunteered for—it wouldn't have anything to do with Webb, would it, Sir?"

"Relax, Commander. This is not one of Webb's harebrained schemes. It's a Christmas mission to a land where Christmas never comes. The Marines are making a special delivery to children in remote villages--a load of sweaters, caps, mittens and scarves donated by folks at stateside military bases. Don't worry, son, she'll still be on the Sea Hawk when you get there."

Rabb smiled. "Thank you, Sir."

"Well, get on it Commander. And Rabb…"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Give my best to the Colonel when you see her." The Admiral grinned.

"Aye, aye, Sir." Rabb grinned back.

Scene Three: One times Zero

Officers Quarters—Temporary Visitor Housing 

USS Sea Hawk

Evening of 11 December 

The Cipher sits on his rack, laptop on his knees, his fingers tap-tapping over the keys with an intense, persistent, staccato motion. Scattered before him, some bits of wire, a transistor radio, and a child's electronic game. The Com officer had given him the needed information without even knowing what he was doing. It is always a matter of inserting the important questions into strings of inconsequential chatter. And, of course, no need to ask directly, no need to ask for all. Just the elements to play with. Bits of this strange language, so clumsy, its words written backwards, like something in a mirror. But he has learned them well, these infidel letters. The numbers are his own. A homeland for the mind. And a power source. His is the strength of the One followed by a string of zeros stretching out before him like the endless sea. 

Scene Four: Zero-Zero

Aboard the Freighter Jade Mountain

Indian Ocean

Approaching the Sea Hawk's battle group

Dawn, 13 December

The sky is a coffin-lid of clouds. Thick mist rolls over the water, twisted and swirling like the ghosts of all the drowned. Still, the Jade Mountain creeps toward the coordinates Mustafa specified. Machines see when we are blind. The Wasp sipped his coffee and stared out into the fog. We are delayed, he thought, but not deterred. The Stinger, armed and ready, lies on the bench just by the door. When the clouds clear, there will be time enough. 

Scene Five: One Plus One Plus One

Legal Office Number One

USS Sea Hawk

Morning, 14 December

A knock, then the hatch opened. "Permission to come aboard, Ma'am?" a familiar voice inquired. Mac swung round to see Harm grinning at her, handsome as ever. But, under his breezy flyboy manner she sensed a hesitancy. A little like a boy about to enter the principal's office, Mac thought. She smiled and returned his salute.

"Permission granted, Commander." Her brow furrowed slightly as she added, "Harm, I thought you weren't due in till this afternoon."

"Well, there wasn't much left to do on board the Blue Ridge and there was a helo coming this way, so I just brought my paperwork along."

As Harm ducked into the office, Coates greeted him with a salute, a hundred-watt smile, and a hearty, "Commander Rabb! Great to see you, Sir!" Once he'd returned her greeting, she went back to work at her terminal, tapping away at the keys.

Mac motioned to the chair she'd pulled up beside her. "You are just in time, Commander. I was about to review the evidence in the Jameson murder." As he moved toward her Harm saw two small framed pictures on her desk—a studio portrait of little AJ and a snapshot of Mac with Chloe and Jingo. He felt a twinge of disappointment. Then he spotted the postcard of the bay he'd sent from Naples, propped up where Mac could see it as she worked.

"Jameson? The Com officer?"

"Yes. We don't have much to go on. And no obvious suspects. He was, by all accounts, a likable guy, had a squeaky clean service record, and no significant tensions with anyone in his sector." She shoved a file at Harm. He opened it and they bent over the photos, typed statements, and notes, their heads nearly touching. He was so close, Mac could smell his after-shave. And Harm was very aware every time his shoulder brushed hers at the turning of a page. As Harm studied the material, he fired questions at Mac. She answered briskly, sometimes countering with questions of her own. Two hours later, Harm said, "It just doesn't make sense, Mac. Nothing adds up. Not the least deviation from his usual routine. Unless you count a quick trip to the ship store." His voice slowed a little and his eyes were grave, "Christmas shopping for his kids."

Mac pressed her lips together and nodded. Then she sighed. "I 'd hoped maybe you'd see some angle I missed. Damn."

"Ma'am, Sir," Coates stood up from the computer terminal where she'd been busy entering data as they talked. "Maybe a break would help. We're out of coffee here, but I can rustle up some from the wardroom galley. Heck, maybe I can even snag some Christmas cookies, too."

"Sounds good, Coates," Mac said. Coates saluted and left on her errand of mercy.

As the hatch slammed shut, Mac felt the narrowness of the office and a sudden surge of shyness at being alone with Harm, in such close quarters. She gave herself an inward shaking. _Get a grip, Marine. This is Harm—your partner, remember? You've been alone in an office with him a million times. Take your own advice—its best not to get involved with someone you have to work closely with. No matter how you feel about him._

Harm turned to Mac, looking directly into her eyes. "How have you been, Mac? Your emails have been pretty sketchy lately. Any thing wrong?"

Mac looked down at her hands, which she'd clenched together in her lap. _No matter how you feel about him._ "Just Christmas blues, I guess. Somehow those tinsel garlands and twinkly lights in the ward room just don't do it for me."

At that moment, she looked so beautiful and so vulnerable, Harm wanted to gather her in his arms. But he settled for resting his right hand lightly on her left shoulder. "Yeah, I know." _She isn't pulling away or shrugging me off. 'Easy, Hammer, easy,' he said to himself. 'Don't blow this.' _He slid his hand down to rest gently on top of hers. "Hey, you know I've missed you, Marine."

Mac felt his touch run through her body. Warmth--like sunlight, like fever, like a shot of bourbon—bolted through her, waking every nerve ending. _Down, girl. This is Harm, he cares about you—as a partner, stupid. _Still looking down, Mac smiled, a little ruefully. She took a long deep breath, so her voice wouldn't shake. "Yeah, Squid, I've missed you, too."

Then the fingers of Harm's left hand were under her chin, gently lifting it, so her eyes met his. He thought he saw the glint of tears welling up. "Hey Mac, don't cry. You'll be home in plenty of time for Bud and Harriet's party. Me, too. Hey, maybe we can do brunch Christmas morning. What do you say, partner? My place? Around eleven?"

"I'd like that, Harm." Mac's voice was barely audible. Harm felt a sort of tightening in his chest as he kept his eyes on her face, trying to read the expression there. Suddenly Mac's mouth was the center of the universe. And she still hadn't pulled away. 

__

What is it his eyes are saying? I'd almost swear the kindness in them has a hungry edge. Mac raised her brows slightly--a wisp of a question in that subtle motion. He leaned toward her, still gazing into her eyes. 

At the knock on the hatch, he pulled back. 

The next thing he knew, Mac was introducing him to Gray Caldwell. Harm appraised him silently: _average height and build, deeply tanned, strong-boned face, khaki cargo pants, gray turtleneck, dark suede vest. Indiana Jones meets Banana Republic_, Harm thought, drawing himself up to his full height.

Gray returned his gaze. _So this is the great Commander_, he thought, _tall, broad-shouldered, gold wings. Suave boy-next-door-face--finely chiseled upper lip, strong jaw, symmetrical features. One of those too-handsome-for-his-own-good types the camera loves and the ladies drool over. James Bond goes Navy. If he stood any closer to Colonel Sarah he'd knock her over. _

Scene Six: Odd and Even

Officer's Ward Room

Second Lunch Shift

14 December 

"Harm, over here!" He'd spotted Mac just a second before she called his name. Funny how that was. He always knew where she was, even in a room as crowded as this one. As he made his way through the narrow space between the tables, Harm kept his eyes on Mac, who was chatting with that photographer. Harm groaned inwardly. He'd been hoping for one of the smaller tables. No chance for lunch alone, of course. At a table for four, though, with a little lingering, you could manage a more-or-less private word or two. But Mac and Caldwell were not alone. Coates was there, and a man and a woman—both dark-haired, both in civvies--who looked vaguely familiar. He couldn't call up a name.

Then he saw the child. Hell's bells, SECNAV really pulled some strings on this one. A child on an active duty carrier. The little boy was clambering onto Mac's lap, laughing up into her face as if he had known her forever. With a pang, Harm watched the child pat Mac's cheek with one chubby hand. There certainly were times when being a kid had its advantages.

"Harm," Mac motioned to a chair beside her, which was—mercifully—empty, "I'd like you to meet Dr. Nikos Zabetakis and Dr. Giovanna Alba. They're with the medical group."

"My friends call me Nikos," the man said, rising to shake Harm's hand.

"Most Americans just call me Jo," the woman said, echoing his motion.

"And this," Mac said, grinning broadly at the child in their lap, "is their son, Giovanni."

"But everyone calls him Vanni," his mother said. "Here, let me take him, Sarah. You won't be able to eat with that little monkey squirming about." Over his protests, Giovanna walked round the table, lifted her son with gentle strength, then settled back into her chair with Vanni on her lap. Vanquished, he snuggled against her and stuck a plump thumb in his mouth. 

As Harm unfolded his napkin, he studied the couple seated across from him. He was sure he had seen them before--in Naples. He remembered the moment vividly, because the woman had reminded him so much of Mac. Now, he saw that it had been a trick of the moment, the coincidence of similar height and build and coloring. Giovanna's face was thinner than Mac's, her eyes not so large. She was a striking woman, but not what he would call beautiful. He stole a sideways glance at Mac, who was asking Nikos a question. Harm's eyes traced the delicate arch of Mac's eyebrow, the soft line of her cheek, the full curve of her lips. Mmm. "Red light, Commander," he reminded himself. 

Caldwell was watching Mac, too. Harm had a clear view from where he sat, for Caldwell had the end seat, on the other side of Mac. _The foot of the table_, Harm thought, _where he belongs._ Caldwell had a direct view of Coates at the other end of the table, to Harm's left, and was as close to Giovanna as to Mac, but he seemed bent on spending the whole damned dinner turned toward Mac, trying to get and keep her attention. 

As the meal progressed, talk at the table ranged widely, from the doctors' plans for their work in Afghanistan to Vanni's fascination with airplanes. Then Giovanna turned the conversation in a more personal direction.

"You have no family, Gray?"

"Oh, I've got cousins somewhere in Georgia."

"It must get very lonely for you," Giovanna's voice was soft. She looked from Gray to Mac and back again. _So she sees it, too_, Harm thought. 

"Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends." Gray said, still looking at Mac. 

But Mac was looking at Giovanna. "Do you and Nikos always work together?" _Is it my imagination, _Harm thought, _or does Mac's voice sound a little wistful?_

"Whenever we get the chance," Nikos answered, reaching over to take his wife's hand, "though sometimes we take temporary assignments in different places."

"Who takes care of Vanni, then?" Mac asked.

"Generally he is with one or the other of us—whichever one is in the safest place," Giovanna said. "But sometimes he stays in Naples with my mother." 

"And you are not worried about taking him into Afghanistan?" Coates asked.

"Of course we are concerned, " Nikos said, "but it is most important to be together. The world is so uncertain. Every place has its risks. But the risk of love is worth everything." He slipped his arm around Giovanna's shoulders. "We are a team, Giovanna and I. All three of us now." Nikos reached over with his free hand and tousled Vanni's curls, "Vanni reminds us to laugh. Every day." The boy wriggled free of his mother's hold and launched himself into his father's lap. "Ouf!" Nikos steadied his son with his free arm, "Not to mention that he keeps us more than a little off balance and much on our toes."

Mac smiled. _If any male at this table has her full attention_, Harm thought, _it is Vanni_. _Well better the child, than Caldwell. _

"How long have you two been together?" Mac asked. 

"Six years, this Christmas," Nikos answered. "But we knew each other for about a year before that. We were working in a clinic in Calcutta when we met."

"Yes," Giovanna chuckled, "we were just setting up our well-baby clinic in the City of Joy when in marches this know-it-all Greek pediatrician wanting to rearrange everything."

"Guilty, I'm afraid," Nikos smiled. "But a certain Italian doctor soon set me straight."

"It took some doing, I am afraid. Nikos is remarkably pig-headed." She leaned toward Nikos, lightly touching her cheek to his. Harm felt a sudden stab of jealousy. He honestly didn't know which he envied more—the tenderness of the gesture or its freedom. 

"But, under the stars, I am a different man all together. Most easily persuaded." Nikos squeezed his wife's shoulder. "Since that night on the Hooghly river…"

"Darling," Giovanna's rich laughter masked the end of his sentence, "no one wants to hear ALL the details, no matter how romantic." Nikos grinned at her, then bowed his head in playful acquiescence. 

"You are right my dear. No need to make all of these good people jealous."

Harm felt a sudden need to touch Mac, to take her hand, to tell her that he'd been a fool--a damned idiotic oxygen-deprived first-rank fool. He looked at Nikos, Giovanna, and Vanni and all he could see is what he might have had. 

"I don't know," Harm found himself saying, "may be you could teach us a thing or two."

Mac watched him flash his flyboy grin at Giovanna and shook her head. But Giovanna, leaning against Nikos, said gravely, " I am afraid that no one can learn love from the ways of others. It comes from who we are, or not at all. So many paths. So many dark streets. And sometimes, light. Not always of our deserving. It is a gift." She was looking directly into Harm's eyes, as if she read something there. "Sometimes what we need to learn has been there all along. In plain sight, so to speak." 

Giovanna flashed Harm a luminous smile then, still smiling, turned her eyes to meet Mac's. Mac stole a sideways glance at Harm and found that he had turned to look at her. She felt a tide of panic rising in her chest. _Am I that conspicuous? _A wave of self-consciousness tightened every muscle in her body. Her right hand jerked awkwardly, overturning her coffee cup, spilling the hot brown liquid onto the white tablecloth. As Mac grabbed her napkin to stem the flow, her hand bumped against Harm's--already engaged in the same rescue motion. Their eyes met. They laughed together. The tension broken, they mopped up the coffee, the conversation drifted off to films and politics and American football. Somewhere between _Notting Hill _and the Superbowl, Harm's hand found Mac's under the table, just for a second. A little squeeze that might have been comradely, if his hand had not lingered over hers. 

Gray Caldwell, with his attention focused on Mac, took it all in. _It doesn't compute. Everything she's said about him and all I can gather from Coates suggests a platonic partnership. But when they are together, something is there, under the surface, between the lines. She's not sure though. He's never told her in so many words. He hasn't made his move. What kind of idiot is he?_

Declining dessert, Mac and Coates headed back to the office. Harm and Gray were the last ones at the table. Looking at the chair where Mac had been sitting, Gray said, "You're a hell of a lucky man, Commander."

"What do you mean, Caldwell?"

"If you don't know, Rabb, then your luck is going to run out sooner than you think."

Scene Seven: Multiplication

USS Sea Hawk

Arrival of the last COD

14 December

Commander Rabb greeted the group from the Scheherazade—the Captain and two of his people-- with a smooth formality worthy of a diplomat. As Coates led them to their guarded quarters, Mustafa Adamah was a happy man. It had been so easy, this coming aboard. Without a hitch. There were guards, to be sure. A minor inconvenience. 

Scene Eight: With Words Unspoken

USS Sea Hawk

Legal Office One

16 December

Harm looked at the snapshot of Mac. She had one arm around Chloe and Jingo was licking her other hand. Her image looked up into his face with a peaceful, easy smile. Not like that last look, as she'd turned to follow Gray into the COD. She'd smiled at him, all right, but the smile had been a little lopsided. 

Their hours together aboard the Sea Hawk had disappeared in a flash. Like Jingo licking up spilled milk. They had been busy with the Jameson case. He'd been busy with the Blue Ridge incident. Hell, they hadn't even had a few moments alone on the fantail. Not that he hadn't tried. But that blasted photographer had been up there with his camera. Something about the sunset from a carrier. Yeah, sure. He was waiting for Mac. And he didn't leave till they did. Damn.

So he'd brought her float coat and ear protectors to her quarters. Stood in the hatchway like a damned schoolboy while she tucked one last thing into her backpack. There was just time to touch her arm and say, "Hey Marine, watch your six out there." Then Caldwell was at his elbow. And other words died in his throat. He cared too much for her to risk trouble by saying more in front of a witness. Especially this one.

She'd read his face, though. "Hey, Harm. It's only a few days. Not combat duty either."

"It's a war zone, Mac."

"Don't worry, Rabb. I plan to watch out for Colonel Sarah." Gray's grin was annoying. Harm hoped Mac didn't find it cute.

"Yeah, sure, Caldwell. Ten to one, if there's trouble, she'll be rescuing you. Mac's one tough Marine."

Damn. That was pretty much the last thing he'd said to her. 


	3. Rumor of Angels

WHILE MORTALS SLEEP 3

Disclaimer: Characters and information from JAG are the property of Donald P. Bellasario/Belisarius Productions/ Paramount/ CBS. This story is strictly not-for-profit and is just a way of sharing the fun and frustrations of JAG-watching. No copyright infringement is intended. The other characters and incidents are figments of my imagination and not meant to represent anyone living or dead, so any resemblance is purely coincidental. Any idiocies herein are entirely my own. 

Author's Note: The scene two title alludes to Yeats's "The Rose of Battle"

Chapter Three: Rumor of Angels

Scene One: The First Word

The upper deck of the Jade Mountain

The Arabian Sea

A few miles outside the Sea Hawk battle group cordon

Morning, 16 December

Gray waves swell and collapse under a sky still smeared with the blood-mark of early light. The C-2 Greyhound's ascent from the carrier deck is more rapid than he expected, but slow enough. As it comes into range it is still under the 12,000 foot ceiling for a hit from a shoulder-fired missile. The Wasp lifts the Stinger to his shoulder and sights. His breath tightens in his chest as he estimates the distance. The Greyhound's trajectory is bringing her well within the five-mile limit. He checks the sight. Now. He feels power flow through his arm to the trigger, exploding with a kick that jolts him, despite his firm stance. As the flash of light arcs toward its target, he fires again. Two bars of light streak upward, like rapid cursors blinking against the screen of sky. 

Scene Two: The Little Cry

Aboard the C-2 Greyhound COD

En route from the Sea Hawk to Airbase Alpha

Morning, 16 December

Gray saw the flash of light before the first shock wave ran through the cabin. He'd been taking some aerial views of the battle group when he saw the freighter tagging along the edge, like somebody's little brother. Then, he saw a flash of something that he first thought might be a distress flare.

A shudder ran through the plane and he heard Colonel Sarah call out something that sounded like, "Every body down! We've been hit!" As he grabbed his ankles, Gray was aware that Mac was still upright, making sure that everyone around her--particularly the civilian doctors--got into the safest position. _Mac's one tough Marine. _Rabb's words came back to him as the plane lurched, then rolled a little to the left. From the moment they'd boarded the COD, Gray had seen a change in her. She was all business, as focused on the mission ahead as if it had been combat, a matter of life or death instead of an errand of mercy. _And now_, he thought, _it just might become a matter of life or death._

An orange glow briefly lit the cabin. Then the smoke—acrid, heavy, blinding.

__

In a crisis, training takes over, Mac thought as she felt her body going through the motions it had learned, her voice speaking clearly and calmly from some command center established years ago and kept in place by discipline._ The habit of service, the habit of sacrifice. Semper Fi. _When Giovanna and Nikos were in position, bent over, but leaning together, their bodies shielding Vanni's from whatever was to come, Mac moved into crash stance.

Mac's one tough Marine. She didn't feel tough. Icy rivulets of fear were coursing from some adrenalin-fired panic center in her brain to the tips of her fingers, the soles of her feet. She tried to focus on Harm's voice, the warmth and confidence in the way he'd said it. Even when she didn't believe in herself, he believed in her._ Mac's one tough Marine. _As she bent down, Mac savored the memory of his voice. And prayed the heart's little cry._ Please don't let that be the last of us. Please, please, please._

Scene Three: Tidings

USS Sea Hawk

Legal Office One

Morning, 16 December 

Coates put down the shipcom receiver and turned to find Commander Rabb staring out over the jumble of manila folders that covered the narrow worktable. "Sir?"

"Yes, Coates?" The Commander squared his shoulders and breathed deeply.

"It's the Captain, Sir. You are wanted on the bridge, Sir. There's been…an incident."

Her voice quavered a little. "It's the COD, Sir. It's been hit by missiles fired from a MANPAD on some freighter, Sir." 

"With me, Coates." Rabb had grabbed his cover and was out the hatch, with Coates racing to keep up with him.

Scene Four: A Wing and a Prayer

Bridge of the USS Sea Hawk

Morning, 16 December

"A direct hit, Sir?"

"I am afraid so, Commander. By at least one of the missiles."

"And the COD, Sir?"

"The pilot's attempting an emergency landing. She's lost an engine and has some damage to the rear of the fuselage. But she's keeping her in the air."

"If any one can bring her in, its Angel." Coates's voice was steady now. Remembering where she was, she added a hasty, "Sir."

"Angel?" The Commander's voice was tight, his jaw clenched. Evidently the tension was affecting his hearing. 

"Pilot of the COD, Commander," the Captain volunteered, "Lt. Angie San Gabriel. She's one of our best."

Scanning the eastern horizon through the glass front of the bridge, Harm found the plume of smoke from the Greyhound, a charcoal smudge against a gray paper sky. He clenched his fists at his sides, willing himself to be still. The worst of it was the feeling of utter helplessness. At least when you're in the cockpit, you've got a chance at control. At least when you're in it together, there's a chance to make it work. _Hang in there, Marine. You'll make it through this. _Her face flashed vividly before him, her dark eyes brimming with tears_. You're going to be okay, Mac. Oh God, see her through this. Keep her safe._

Scene Five: The Sound of Your Voice

USS Sea Hawk

Legal Office One

Two Hours Later 

Harm tried to concentrate on the folder in front of him, but it was no use. Coates had been right about Angel. She'd managed to land the COD at an airfield in Muscat, more or less in one piece. But then there'd been trouble with the Sea Hawk's radiocom—odd electrical problems on the bridge, evidently. No news of casualties. 

No news of the freighter yet, either--the battle-group's whole multimillion-dollar cutting edge computer-based STARcom recon coordination system was choking and stalling like a Piper Cub in a grade B movie. 

"Sir?" Coates was handing him a receiver. "For you, Sir. Patched through from Oman."

Harm grabbed the phone. "Commander Rabb here."

There was a crackle and hiss of static, then, "Harm?"

The honey and salt of her voice washed over him in a wave of joy. 

"Mac! You okay?"

"Yeah, Squid. We're all fine. A little smoky and more than a little shaken up. A few bruises here and there. Gray's developing a beautiful shiner."

"Good for him." Harm wanted to laugh--sheer, giddy, my-world's back-in-place belly laughter. But the connection was shaky and he had things to say. He settled for a chuckle. "Mac?"

"Yeah?"

"It's really good to hear your voice. You gave us all—you gave me—one hell of a scare, there, Ninja Girl." He heard a faint chuckle through the static. And what sounded like a gulping noise.

"I don't know what's wrong with me, Sailor. I suddenly have this overpowering urge to laugh till my sides split. Relief, I guess." The voice deepened a little. He could see her lowering her chin and raising her eyes as if to meet his. "But that's not what I want to…I just called to let you know…the truth is, Harm…dammit, I just wanted to hear the sound of your voice."

Harm opened his mouth and no sound came out. _Now who's choking and stalling? _The static buzzed through the pause. "Mac…I'm…missing you already. And, me, too… it's so good just to hear your voice." He took a deep breath, "Any chance you'll abort this mission now?"

"No way, Squid. Takes more than a little crash-landing to deter the U.S. Marines."

"I was afraid of that." The static was louder. "Mac, when you get back, we—uh—need to talk."

"Something wrong, Harm?" He felt the concern in her voice. If she were beside him, she'd touch his arm gently. 

"No, Mac. Something's finally right. Complicated, but right."

"Harm," despite the crackling of the connection, he could hear her sigh. "You're talking in riddles." 

"Not all that hard to decipher, Sarah." 

The office lights flickered and the line went dead. As the Commander put the receiver back in its cradle, Coates studied his face. She'd never heard him call the Colonel "Sarah." But his face was unreadable. 

Scene Six: From Every Angle

USS Sea Hawk

Legal Office One

Afternoon of 16 December

"Hey, Coates, maybe there's an angle we haven't considered." Harm and the Petty Officer sat across from one another, with papers from the Jameson inquiry spread out on the table between them. "Anything you can tell me about this rash of thefts on the Sea Hawk?"

Coates stiffened. Looking up from the file in her hand, she glared at the Commander, her jaw set. "I had nothing to do with it. Nothing. Why would I—"

"Whoa, Coates, whoa." Harm shook his head and lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I didn't mean to imply you had anything to do with it."

Coates blushed. "Sorry, Sir. I guess I'm still not quite used to being trusted."

"Well, we do trust you, Coates. Mac's—Colonel Mackenzie's been singing your praises from her first day back on the Sea Hawk. Hell, she's on the Admiral's case about getting you transferred to JAG Headquarters." Harm smiled at her and handed her a file. "Now, let's get on with this case."

As they considered possible connections between the Jameson murder and the unexplained thefts, the lines of inquiry kept leading them back to the Visiting Concessions area and the merchants. 

"You know, Sir, they were scheduled to leave this afternoon, but they are still marooned on board. No COD's on or off while we're on high alert over that missile attack. If they are involved, Sir, either this incident has trapped them here, or its part of a plan to keep them aboard."

"Why would they want to stay? And why murder Jameson in the first place?"

"Beats me, Sir. But Jameson was in charge of the STARcom's test run. And the stuff that's gone missing all has some connection to electronics."

"A kid's game, Coates?"

"You can use them to construct real weapons guidance systems, Sir."

Rabb frowned. "Then, if one of the merchants murdered Jameson and stole these materials, you think maybe he's here to sabotage the Sea Hawk?"

"Or the whole STARcom system. It would be quite a coup, Sir. And worth a lot in some quarters."

"I bet the folks who are stocking up on old Stingers would just love to parley a few shoulder-fired missile shots into a crippling blow to the Sea Hawk—or this battle group." 

"How those weapons got on the black market in the first place is what I'd like to know, Sir."

"Webb could tell you."

"Webb?"

"It's a long story. The condensed version is that back in the '80's the CIA gave a thousand Stingers to Mujahedeen freedom fighters bucking the Soviets in Afghanistan. Now you can buy them on the black market—for a price."

"That sure beats all, Commander." Coates leaned back in her chair. "You know, Sir, there's another thing. It seems like the Sea Hawk's been having more than her share of electrical problems. The radiocom this morning, for instance. And I've been having a devil of a time with the legal database, Sir. It's like something is eating holes in my programs."

"Could a visitor actually hack into the Sea Hawk's computer network?" 

"We're not talking hacker, Sir. If someone's found a way in, we're looking for a cracker."

"A cracker?"

"Hackers just get in to have a look around. Sort of voyeurs on the information highway. Crackers are destroying angel wannabes. They'll crash the system if they can."

Scene Seven: Angels and Icons

Qandahar, Afghanistan

Evening, 16 December

Officers' Commons

Gray Caldwell seated at a table, made entries in his logbook with swift, sure strokes of his fountain pen:

"Despite the delays, I've managed some good pictures to wire out from Qandahar: 

1. Madonna and Child with Angel on the Runway at Muscat: The battered C2 Greyhound in the background. Dr. Giovanna Alba, kneeling on the tarmac with Vanni in her arms, looking down at him with that look painters have been trying to capture for two thousand years. And the kid, with his curly hair and grimy face, smiling up at Col. Sarah and reaching out a chubby hand to grab the piece of chocolate bar she's handing him. 

2. Flight into Egypt (Via Afghanistan): Col. Sarah helping Dr. Nikos Zabetakis and Dr. Giovanna get Vanni settled into his seat in the cabin of the prop-jet to Qandahar. Caught the Colonel just as she made a gesture that—frozen by the camera—looks like she's sheltering them somehow, in a wide embrace.

3. No Room in the Inn: None of us except Vanni had eaten anything since dawn, so we had a makeshift tea in the shell of a building near the airfield while we waited for transport into Qandahar. Several good shots here: 

Nikos, Gio, and Vanni warming their hands by the fire; Col. Sarah stirring up some freeze-dried macaroni and cheese in a little metal cup; 

c. a ragged group of village kids standing in the shattered doorway--hanging around hoping for leftovers, or a chance to stand by the fire before it dies.

4. Icon of Mercy: Col. Sarah, with a tiny street urchin on her lap. Caught just as the child lifted her face to gaze adoringly at the Colonel."

Gray paused, looking up to take in the group assembled around the heater in the Officers' Commons: Nikos, Giovanna, and the other doctors, a couple of British officers, and a few Marines, including the Colonel. Chatting away as if it were any ordinary day.

__

We were tired, shaken, hungry, he remembered._ It was a relief to mess about starting a fire, boiling water, and breaking into the rations. Vanni was delighted, zooming around our legs till his mother corralled him to share her tea. We were sitting there on the ground, laughing and talking, when the Colonel grew very quiet. _

She was looking at the children in the doorway—four of them. They'd been watching our every move with solemn faces. The oldest was a girl of about twelve, with a little girl younger than Vanni in her arms. Made me think of Ferruzzi's "Madonna of the Streets"—the one where the models were street children—a girl and her brother. The two others were boys, about six and four perhaps, but it's hard to tell. The children here are, for the most part, malnourished and small for their age. 

The Colonel called out something to them in some Arabic language. Farsi maybe. The children apparently understood and the oldest returned Col. Sarah's greeting. Sarah said something else and gestured toward the fire. The children moved forward slowly, like deer emerging from the safety of a thicket. They are wise to be wary. They've never known anything but war. 

I had my camera ready and got several good shots as Sarah set down her cup, stood, and talked with them. Then, she took the smallest child in her arms. I got that photo. And the best shot of all, Sarah feeding her pasta to that ragged baby while the others gobbled granola bars that came from her pack. The picture is perfect—the way she's cradling the child, the food smeared around the little mouth, the way the child looks up at this angel in the funny war clothes. 

Scene Eight: The Blank Page

Evening of December 16

Aboard the Jade Mountain

Somewhere near the Northern African Coast

The Wasp watched as the Americans boarded the Jade Mountain to begin their search, the faintest of smiles pulling at the corners of his mouth. They swarmed aboard like a little contingent of roaches, their movements quick and abrupt. He'd been questioned, but of course, he'd known nothing. "Most sorry, gentlemen, but I am afraid that I can not help you." He only regretted that he could not be there when they found the box of carpets. He could imagine their elation, the excited shouts. They would unroll every last carpet. They were doing so right now. It would take them some time.

But, in the end, they would come up empty-handed. The nearest U.S. ship had been, of course, the Blue Ridge. Unfortunately indisposed. The Jade Mountain had slipped away most easily. Of course, it had been only a matter of time before the Navy tracked her and found her. Enough time. The Wasp smiled again, imagining the Stinger sinking, sinking, into the black depths of an ocean that would never give up all of her secrets.

Scene Nine: Angels Also Testify

A corridor leading to the Brig

USS Sea Hawk

2 a.m. December 17th

Mr. Barak al-Barak moved quietly and quickly through the humming ship. While the corridors of a carrier like the Sea Hawk are never completely deserted, in the night watches the human traffic lessens. Enough for his purposes. And if he did encounter curiosity, he could always claim to be lost. A visitor to the ship, you see. Not good with all these stenciled numbers and letters meant to guide one through the labyrinth of this ocean bird. This corridor was deserted. At the next turn, he would find the guard outside Mustafa's door. The guard would not even hear him coming until it was too late. 

Barak al-Barak prided himself on the grace and smoothness of his movements. He was a master of the quiet necessary to invisibility in a crowded thoroughfare or a deserted hallway. That was another gift. Best of all, though, the gift of his large, bland presence which disturbed no one. He had a name no one remembered, a face like many others. Especially to these Americans, to whom all foreigners look alike. 

Barak al-Barak smiled, flexing the length of wire in his hand. One must have many ways to do the deed. This was one thing he had learned from the American cop shows—a consistent em-oh could be one's undoing. 

As he had anticipated, the guard did not hear him until it was too late. The wire slipped easily over the Marine's head and around his neck, as it was fated. Barak al-Barak had strong arms, also. A single powerful jerk and the guard crumpled to the floor. The keys were attached to the guard's belt with a little clip. Not so difficult to detach, even for plump fingers. 

Soon, he and Mustafa were making the return journey to the visitor's quarters.

"And the Cipher's little machine is in place?"

"So he says, Mustafa."

"A very clever man, our Cipher."

"Clever, indeed, Mustafa. But a zealot."

"It will not hurt us to have a true believer in our midst."

"That, my friend, is—as they say in America—a matter of opinion."

"He has given you trouble?"

"Not at all. But he babbles when we are alone. Talks to the computers. Not just with his hands on the keyboard. He talks to them under his breath, as if they were alive."

"Talk cannot hurt us, Barak."

"He believes his work is holy, Mustafa. Sometimes I think he has convinced himself that he is one of the angels of the holy Koran itself."

Mustafa smiled. "Well, let him be. Perhaps he is an angel of this new world that we are creating. The angels also testify, my friend. And every angel, like our young friend, is a key to an endless ocean of knowledge. The Cipher's knowledge can cripple the Sea Hawk. That is all we need to know."

Scene Ten: In a Dream

Visiting Officer's Quarters

Qandahar

2:30 a.m. 

Mac writhed on the narrow iron cot, the rough blanket tangled around her waist. The wire mesh that held the mattress creaked and groaned. In her dream she heard the calling of some great bird, coming from far off. Then she realized that she was on the flight deck of a carrier, and that the bird's cry was close, but muffled by the noise of wind and engines and landing gear. She saw the shadow first, falling across the deck, then looked up to glimpse a great winged creature, wheeling to starboard. The creature had the face of a vulture and the body of a man. In its arms, a human form. Suddenly the dark angel released its prey and the human form was falling. The body hit the deck with a dull thud. From where she stood, Mac could see the Navy uniform, the unnatural angle of every limb. The face was turned away from her. But she recognized the line of his shoulder, the shape of his ear, the color of his hair. Her heart lurched into her throat and she could not scream. 


	4. While Mortals Sleep

While Mortals Sleep 4

Disclaimer: Characters and information from JAG are the property of Donald P. Bellasario/Belisaurius Productions/Paramount/CBS. This story is strictly not-for-profit and is just a way of sharing the fun and frustrations of JAG-watching. No copyright infringement is intended. The other characters and incidents are figments of my imagination and not meant to represent anyone living or dead, so any resemblance is purely coincidental. Any idiocies are entirely my own.

**__**

Warning: Scene Six contains material I find disturbing—the violent effects of collateral damage on children. The scene is not for young readers or for those who don't want the real world intruding on romance and adventure. 

Chapter 4: While Mortals Sleep

Scene One: Dark Streets

Afghanistan

A village on the road west from Qandahar

Late Afternoon

17 December

Under a sky the color of tarnished pewter, a crowd of villagers gathers round the back of a truck painted to blend in with the mountain desert landscape. Two Marines in the open doorway at the back of the truck hand small bundles to three Marines on the ground. One of the three is Colonel Sarah Mackenzie, having the time of her life playing Santa Claus to shivering children who greet the bundles of mittens, scarves, and sweaters with shy smiles and squeals of glee. 

A photographer in dusty cargo pants and a coffee-colored anorak moves from place to place at the edges of the crowd, snapping one shot after another. 

This is the fifth village of the day. It is nearly dark when the last child receives her package and the crowd begins to disperse. 

"Looks like they've found us a place to bunk for the night," Gray said, carefully placing a lens back in his bag and zipping it shut. 

Mac smiled at him, "Why do I have the feeling that tonight's lodgings are going to make the Officer's Quarters in Qandahar look like the Ritz?"

"Maybe you're clairvoyant."

"It wouldn't take a medium to guess there's no Hilton in this pile of rubble." The village was, in fact, a patchwork of shell-pocked walls, piles of stone and crumbled concrete, hastily constructed mud brick shanties, and jury-rigged tents. They set up camp in the remaining half of what had once been a two-room school. It had four walls and a roof, relatively solid. The windows and window-frames, if there had ever been any, were gone. By some miracle, the chimney still drew, so they got a good fire going, with a minimum of smoke. The walls kept out some of the cutting wind that had blown steadily all day.

As she finger-combed her hair, Mac could feel gritty dust against her scalp. The dust was everywhere, eddying in little wisps by the roadside, slithering across the packed earth of the roadways, settling on their skin and stinging their eyes. _A man's country, Harm had called it. All that open land, the rugged hills, and so much sky--he'd loved it. And she had, too. With Harm at her side it had seemed like another incarnation of the desert around her own Red Rock Mesa, though the colors and shapes of the landscape were new. There'd been no time to look for fossils, but she bet there were plenty here. Maybe as many fossils as there were landmines and warlords and Al-Qaida sympathizers. But now, with Harm off on the Sea Hawk, the country only felt vast and empty. And cold. _Mac shivered, rubbed her hands together, and pulled her gloves back on.

Then Gray was at her side, handing her a cup of steaming coffee. "Mmm, thanks," Mac murmured, warming her gloved hands on the sides of the metal mug and bending her face over its warmth. He motioned her to a place nearer the fire, where he'd set out their sleeping bags side by side, folded over in half to make seats. Gunny Nevchak was feeding the fire and making dinner—boiling the water for their packets of freeze-dried stew. The others were playing gin rummy with a pack of dog-eared cards. 

Mac hugged her knees and stared into the fire. The blaze made her face hot, but her back was cold. Uncomfortable, but it was worth it, to see the looks on those kids' faces. The shy gratitude of the mothers, too. If she was cold, they were colder. And she just had to be here a few days. They had to last out the winter. And wave after wave of war. She rested her chin on her knees and suddenly felt an overwhelming tide of tiredness. Her eyelids were lead curtains—she could hardly hold them open.

Gray watched the Colonel. She was so close that he could slide his arm around her if wanted to. And he wanted to. But he could guess how she'd react here, in front of these other Marines. _She'd be every inch an affronted officer_, he imagined. _And,_ he sighed to himself, _an angry woman_. _There was no denying it. As far as he could see, they were fast becoming great friends. But she'd made the lines very clear. No, he couldn't help her carry her bags. No, she could climb up into the truck by herself, thank you. No, please, I'd really rather you call me Mac. Colonel Sarah sounds so…so silly._

Over the stew they'd laid their plans for the next day's stops. The Colonel had been the first to roll out her sleeping bag and climb into it. When Gray couldn't resist making a little joke about moving the bags closer to share a little body heat, she'd practically snarled at him. It was the first time he'd seen her ruffled. _I evidently struck a nerve, _he thought. 

Rolling on her side, with her back to Gray, Mac unzipped her pack and pulled out the little snapshot in its shatterproof holder. It was barely visible in the fire's glow, but she could just make out Harm's smile. She touched it with the tip of her index finger. _Wish you were here, _she thought. _I really do. _ She fell asleep remembering Harm's arms around her, the solid warmth of his torso as she slid her arms inside his jacket, the countless candles of the stars twinkling over them with such a friendly light. Remembering the sensation of his breath on her cheek as they talked quietly together and how she'd wanted to lean over and kiss him. And in her dreams, she did.

Mac was awakened by a rustling noise that her trained instincts told her was not one of the sleepers. The fire had died down to a dull glow and the Marine on watch—Evans, she thought—had fallen asleep, sitting by the fire with his chin sunk on his chest, his hand still on his rifle, its barrel propped against the wall. As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she saw a lone figure silhouetted in the space between the fire and the doorway. 

It was a bearded man in the loose trousers and compact turban of this region. He carried a rifle of some sort and had it at the ready. Mac willed herself to keep her breathing even and slow as he moved toward the semicircle of sleeping bags. Quietly, quietly, she eased down the zipper of her own bag. Gray was on the end nearest the intruder, snoring with a sound somewhere between a mutt's growl and a cold Humvee engine. Thank God for that sound—it would cover any noise she made as she readied herself to move.

The intruder stepped noiselessly to within a yard of Gray's sleeping form, then he paused. Lifting the rifle, he aimed directly at Gray's head. Mac inhaled deeply, then sprang over Gray, tackling the intruder's waist and shouldering his rifle arm upward. The rifle's report deafened her for a second. Then there was a clamor of shouting and motion. The intruder was struggling under her and she had both hands on his rifle—one on the barrel, the other prying his fingers from the trigger. Then Nevchak was with her and together they got control of the weapon and its owner. 

Scene Two: Searching the Shadows

The Bridge of the USS Sea Hawk

Evening, 17 December

"Any ideas, Commander Rabb? Our search has turned up nothing so far. And the man has to be on this ship. No transport on or off since the COD incident."

"No, Captain. If anyone knows this ship, you do. Keep your men on it. He's bound to turn up. Everyone else's whereabouts accounted for, Sir?"

"We're working on it, Commander. But, as you know, we've got several thousand people on this ship. And we've been hampered by these damned electrical problems—internal communications, generator supply systems, databases all screwed up. The coms are up, then down. The lights are on, then off. Now in this sector, now that. And we're having to keep tabs on where we've searched and where we haven't on clipboards, for Pete's sake."

"Yeah, we've had some problems of our own in legal, Sir. But it seems to me like the real suspect pool is actually pretty small. What about the visitors?"

"All accounted for—including the merchants and the other men from the Scheherazade."

"With your permission, Captain, I'd like to schedule interviews with all the visitors."

"Go right ahead, Commander."

Scene Three: The Eyes of Love

MSF Children's Clinic 

Village of Asterah, Afghanistan

Evening, 18th December

Asterah was the seventh—and last—village of the day. Despite last night's interrupted sleep, the Marines and their guest photographer had been up and on the trail before daylight. After miles of bumpy roads, biting winds, and choking dust, it was good to call it a day. _Best of all_, Mac thought, _is having friends at the end of the road._ After all they'd been through together, Mac felt like she'd known Giovanna all her life. She and Nikos invited Mac to spend the night with them, while the men in her group stayed at the home of the village chief. _And, to be honest, _Mac sighed, _it will be a relief to have a little break from Gray. _

They'd given Mac a tour of the clinic and she'd been amazed at what they'd accomplished in just two days. Though they still had unpacking to do, and some supplies were apparently wandering the roads between Qandahar and Asterah, they were already seeing patients. As word of their work spread, they expected women to bring their children from villages as far as seventy miles away. Many would arrive on foot. Their building was spartan—volunteers from the peacekeeping forces had reconstructed it from the damaged remains of what had been a tailor's workshop and living quarters and an adjacent teashop. It had no central heating, electricity, or running water, but it did have a sturdy roof and thick walls. They had hired men and women from the village to fetch water and wood, to tend the fire, and to help with the patient interviews. 

Now, it was lovely to sit by the fire with Giovanna. They kept their voices low because Vanni was sleeping beside them on his small cot near the fireside and Nikos was working on clinic records by the light of an oil lamp.

"We hope to have a kerosene generator by the end of next week. Then we will really be a high-tech operation." Giovanna chuckled softly.

"You two—three—are just amazing. You are all so brave—"

"Or maybe foolish," broke in Giovanna, "Yes, I think that is more it. We have the wise foolishness of love. When you love fully and deeply—whether it is a man, a child, a world in need—you do not stop to count the cost."

"You just rush in?"

"Precisely. But, on the other hand, I think that really, despite the American proverb, it is the angels, not the fools, who rush in. It is the fools who fear to tread. The fools are always feeling themselves for damage, counting the cost. Meanwhile life just slips away from them."

Mac leaned forward, her elbow on her knee, her fist under her chin, staring into the fire. "I really envy you, Giovanna. You have it all—good work, a good man, a child…" She chuckled softly. 

"And that makes you laugh?"

"No, it's just… I told a friend once that all I wanted in life was a good job, a good man, and lots and lots of comfortable shoes. Out here, the shoes seem kind of silly." Mac straightened and smiled at Giovanna.

"But very, very necessary on these rough roads." Giovanna laughed quietly, a whispery, warm sound that made Mac want to hug her.

"That friend of yours," Giovanna's eyes, as they met Mac's, were twinkling, "was it perhaps your Commander Rabb?"

Mac could swear she felt herself blushing. _Probably just the heat from the fire_. She sighed, "Yes, it was Harm. But he's not 'my' Commander. We're partners, good friends…"

Giovanna laughed again. "Oh, Sarah, you can not fool me."

Mac shook her head, "It's true."

"You forget, dear Sarah, that I have seen you two together. Your eyes…"

"What about our eyes?"

"It is true that you see each other clearly, as friends. I think you are honest with each other, see one another's flaws, set one another straight. I have heard that in your talk. It is good to have such a friend. Nikos and I, we are such friends, too. But the eyes of the lover touch you, evoke a response. You and your commander have also the eyes of lovers, speaking to one another, touching one another at every turn."

"I…am in love with him, Giovanna." Mac sighed. "And I know he cares about me. But it's not like that…his eyes touch me because I love him, and the kind looks he gives his friends mean more to me than they should. I am his friend, maybe his best friend, but…"

"No, Sarah, I think that you are mistaken. Your eyes touch him. He responds. In plain sight, though he is careful to hide."

"You're seeing things that aren't there, Giovanna. The other day, after that close call with the MANPAD, I called him. He was glad I was okay, but then he started talking about the case."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. He said we had to talk when I got back. When I asked him what was wrong he said something about things being right, but complicated."

"You are certain he was talking about the case?"

"I think so. Yes."

"And did you ask him, to be sure?"

"I couldn't. We got cut off. I accused him of talking in riddles and then, the last thing he said to me was 'It's not so hard to decipher, Sarah.'"

Giovanna laughed again. "He called you Sarah? Oh, my dear, I think that you are reading this riddle very much the wrong way round. "

Scene Four: The Wheel Turns

Visitor Housing, Officer's Quarters

USS Sea Hawk

Late evening, 18 December

Barak sat on the rack, his plump hands resting on his knees. Mustafa sat on the metal desk chair. The Cipher paced back and forth between them with quick, tense steps. 

"Patience, my friend. All goes well," Barak cooed. "No one has given Mustafa even a second glance." He was proud of his handiwork. With a few swipes of a razor, a few flicks of the tweezers, he had stripped Mustafa of his moustache and pared his bushy brows to a thin arch. Now, dressed in the uniform of a junior officer--stolen, of course--he could be hidden in plain sight. It had been easy enough to instruct him in the salute. And now, with the tech security clearance badge, all became possible. The ship was just big enough, they were keeping enough in the shadows, no one had questioned him.

Of course, Barak had been questioned. By that irritating Commander Rabb. So suspiciously. A dog with his hackles up. Barak chuckled. Ah yes, an infidel, a dog. He imagined the pleasure of breaking Rabb's neck. One last flight--off the fantail, perhaps?

Barak chuckled aloud. Mustafa's clipped words broke into his amusement.

"This machine of yours, why is it working so slowly?"

"It is a very small machine, made only of numbers," The Cipher said. "This is a very large ship, its information systems constructed of many strings of code. They have backups, little loops in the trail I must find and eliminate. I slip the little machine in, with some aid from Americans like Jameson—so stupid they do not even know they are helping. My little machine, it talks to the Sea Hawk, little by little. It turns all to nothing. It teaches the Sea Hawk to think only in an endless string of zeroes. This takes time."

"If the Americans are so stupid, why kill Jameson? It creates too much stir, too soon."

It was Barak's turn to speak. "We tried to avoid this, Mustafa. But it was the only way to get the key. Once aboard, we discovered that the STARcom's failsafe mechanism is a sort of double, contained in a special mainframe. If the STARcom dies, its twin comes to life. Jameson had the key. Soon the Cipher will talk to the twin, insert one of the little machines of code. The Sea Hawk will be helpless in our hands."

Scene Five: A Gift from the East

Women's Self-Help Craft Co-Operative

Asterah, Afghanistan

Morning of December 19

__

It's odd, Mac thought, _he's the most important person in my life and I don't have a gift for him yet. I've got something for everyone else—even for Gray. But not for Harm. What do you get for the guy who has everything you want? _

She sighed. She'd considered everything from sheet music to stereo equipment, and nothing seemed right. As she looked over the woven mats, patchwork vests, beads, baskets, and little carved boxes made from salvaged wood, her heart sank. It had seemed like such a good idea when Giovanna suggested it. Something hand-made, something one-of-a-kind. And something that would help these women and their families. She'd bought a bracelet for Chloe and some placemats for Harriet, a journal notebook with pages of handmade paper for Gray and a woven bag for herself. After all, she needed something to use to carry back these treasures. 

She turned back to Maliha's table to look once more at her mosaic pieces. They were made from bits of glass, slivers of metal, chips of stone and fragments of other materials salvaged from the rubble left by years of bombings. Mac had bought one of Maliha's paper weights for the Admiral. They really were beautiful things, the tiny bits of color cleverly fitted to form swirling abstract designs that suggested sky and sea and gardens without making any forbidden images. Mac was touched by the way Maliha turned the hurt and ruin of her world into something lovely. 

This time, a piece she had not noticed before caught her eye—a picture frame, medium-sized, not too large to carry back in the bag she'd just bought. Along the bottom and up three-quarters of one side a design of greens with swirls of red suggested a rose garden, along the top, bits of blue glass and white porcelain suggested a starry sky. Along the remaining side bits of blue and green alternated to form waves running outward, into eternity. It was itself a vision of a world whose colors were true and bold, but peaceful. It could hold any picture he cared to make. 

As she tucked the frame, carefully wrapped in the placemats, into her bag, Mac smiled to herself. _At least he won't get two of these. And it will remind him of this man's country that he loved. And maybe, just maybe, it will remind him, too, of the rose garden where we met and that night in country under the stars._

Scene Six: Collateral Damage

The Road to Qandahar

Late morning, 19 December 

Despite the gift shopping, it had still been relatively early when they left Asterah for the direct run back to Qandahar. Their road took them through several villages where they had distributed gifts. But this time, the truck held only five Marines and one photographer. They did not plan to stop.

It was Mac's turn to ride in the cab. Evans was driving, and Gray, as usual, had the window seat and was snapping photos as they rode. A few miles west of Qandahar they drove past an undulating pile of rubble that had been a village long known as an Al-Qaida stronghold. After the bombings and fire, most of the villagers had fled to the hills. The few who remained lived in tents thrown up at the eastern edge of the ruins. 

Just beyond the tent city, they passed another rubble pile. It was impossible to tell what it had been. As they drew alongside, Mac saw several small boys scrambling up an incline of rubble to join a slightly larger boy who was digging at its crest. 

"Dangerous business, scavenging," said Evan.

"It' s a dangerous country, all round," Mac sighed. "No place for children."

They'd gone less than a quarter of a mile further when they heard the blast behind them.

"Oh, God, no! Those children!" Mac shouted. "Turn this thing around, Evans."

"Yes Ma'am." Evans braked and slowly eased the truck back and around. Then he floored it.

Evans and Mac were first on the scene. A new crater had blossomed in the rubble. It was reddening with the blood from what was left of the bodies of the two boys who had been closest to the sleeping cluster bomb when it detonated. Though he knew it was hopeless, Evans scrambled up to the lip of the crater. What he found there was flesh and blood, but hardly recognizable as human.

Mac dropped to her knees several yards back, carefully examining the small boy who lay very still on the heap of stones and brick. His face was bleeding profusely, but a quick check revealed that though these wounds would scar his face forever if he lived, they did not present a threat to his life. But the force of the explosion had made projectiles of stone and brick and concrete. One of these had torn off his right hand. Blood spurted from the stump in a small, grotesque fountain of red. Mac felt the warm, thick droplets spraying her face as she pulled off her belt and formed a torniquet at the first pressure point above the wound. Then, murmuring in Farsi, "You are fine, you are all right, you are fine. Stay with us…" Mac drew out her knife, opened her jacket and began cutting strips of cloth from her shirt. She bound the lower arm wound tightly, then tended to the deep gashes on the boy's chest and legs. 

"Nevchak!" Mac called. "Call for the medevac helo from Qandahar. Tell them we've got—" she surveyed the scene, noting that Evans was bent over one child while Gray and another of the Marines still worked on the boy who had been furthest out. "Three wounded. Just that. Three wounded. Status on the wounds, if they ask. Nothing more."

"Yes ma'am!" Nevchak raced to the truck.

_Dammit, _Mac thought_, damn it all to hell. This is one we can't palm off on Al-Qaida or the Soviets. Our bombs did this. And, by God, our medics are going to deal with it. _She laid her hand gently against the boy's dark hair, at the crown of his head, where she knew he was not wounded. "You are going to be okay little soldier," she crooned in Farsi, "My brave one, you are going to be just fine."

The medics had not questioned Mac's order, but set right to work. Only when the helo was rising slowly, slowly into the eastern sky, did Mac feel her own tears. She trembled and her stomach was cramping violently. As Gray put a comforting arm around her, she leaned against him, grateful for support. Then she pulled away, murmuring, "I think…I am going…to be…sick" and doubled over. Gray held her steady as she vomited, again and again. Then, he wiped her face clean with a handkerchief moistened with water from his canteen and poured water over her blood-caked hands. For once in his life he was not thinking about pictures. But Mac, leaning her head against Gray's shoulder, was hanging on to the comfort of Harm's voice. _Mac's one tough Marine. Not all that hard to decipher, Sarah._


	5. Wondering Love

WHILE MORTALS SLEEP 5

Disclaimer: Characters and information from JAG are the property of Donald P. Bellasario/Belisaurius Productions/Paramount/CBS. This story is strictly not-for-profit and is just a way of sharing the fun and frustrations of JAG-watching. No copyright infringement is intended. The other characters and incidents are figments of my imagination and not meant to represent anyone living or dead, so any resemblance is purely coincidental. Any idiocies are entirely my own.

Author's note: The title of Scene Five is an allusion to a song by Tish Hinojosa on her "Destiny's Gate" CD (Warner Brothers). No, the last scene is not a song fic. But there is dancing, so there had to be music. 

Chapter 5: Wondering Love

Scene One: Complication

Flight Deck

USS Sea Hawk

Southern sector, Arabian Sea

Late afternoon, Thursday, 19 December

The booming snap of the tailhook meeting the wire, the screech of the landing gear against the surface of the deck, the whir and shudder of engines shutting down were the welcome music of a return to ordinary operations. With so many things still going awry on the Sea Hawk, every one was tense about this first COD landing after the MANPAD incident. As the Greyhound slowed to a stop, Harm realized that he'd been holding his breath. He let it out with a shake of his head and strode toward the plane.

Mac caught sight of his familiar figure as she stepped out onto the deck. He greeted her with his flyboy grin and a crisp salute. "Welcome aboard, Colonel!" he shouted over the roar of wind and engines.

She pushed the strap of her colorful woven bag higher on her shoulder, held her cover on her head with her left hand, and returned his salute. "Great to be back, Commander!"

As her eyes met his she was suddenly aware of how awful she must look—haystack hair from the cold, dry in-country winds, dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep, cracked chapped lips, and a uniform smudged with the sooty dust of the Qandahar airfield. 

As their eyes met, Harm wondered how a woman could manage to look so weary and so beautiful at the same time. "Hey Marine, where's your shadow? Did you ditch Caldwell in Qandahar?" 

"Don't worry, Squid, he'll be back on the morning COD. He's planning to shoot the USO show on Saturday."

Harm shrugged, "I guess you can't have everything." As a crewman slung packs and duffel bags onto the deck, Harm spotted Mac's, snapped it up, and slung it over his shoulder.

"Hey, Harm, you don't have to—"

"Who said anything about 'have to,' Jarhead?"

Mac shook her head and ducked through the hatch before him. After she'd signed in, she turned to find him fishing in his trouser pocket. Then, with a flourish, he held out a closed fist, fingers down. "Put out your hand, Mac. A little welcome home present." He dropped a tube of lip balm onto her outstretched palm.

Mac smiled up at him. "If it wasn't against regs, Sailor, I'd kiss you right here and now." She paused to smooth the lemony cream over her lips, then pressed them together. "Mmm. That's so good. I hereby amend my life's ambition, Squid. I want a good job, lots of comfortable shoes, and a good man with lip balm in his pocket."

"Looks like I'm your guy." Harm grinned again, then motioned for her to precede him down the narrow corridor. As they made their way to her quarters, he stayed close behind her, one hand always resting lightly against her lower back. _If anyone else did that, I'd probably feel cornered, _she thought. But she'd always liked that gesture of his. Somehow it made her feel as if he wanted to protect her, even though he well knew she could take care of herself. _The way I feel about him, _she thought. _We all need someone to watch our six, no matter how tough our training makes us._

From the shadowy corner under the ladder to the Officer's Quarters, Mustafa saw the gesture too_. So even the great Commander has his weakness. This is useful knowledge. Barak must know. A little insurance for our venture._

At her quarters, Harm dumped her duffel on the rack. Then he turned to face her. Reaching a hand toward the hatch and making a shutting gesture, he raised his eyebrows as if silently asking permission. Mac nodded. Harm closed the hatch with a quick, quiet sweep of his arm.

The next thing she knew, his arms were encircling her and she could feel his breath in her hair as he bent to kiss the top of her head. "Mac, I'm glad you're okay. So damned glad that you're here," he whispered. As her arms closed around the solid expanse of his back she managed to choke out, "Oh, Harm."

He was gently stroking her back with one hand, while the other reached up to massage the nape of her neck. Mac nestled her face against his chest and breathed in the scent of him. She wanted this closeness to last forever. She wanted just to be there in his arms, to hold him.

He felt her trembling, then gently shaking, as she sobbed quietly. He drew her closer, and murmured in her ear, "Tough out there these last few days, Mac?" She nodded, whispering, "I can't talk about it yet. Maybe later."

"Sure?" She nodded again. His hands were moving tenderly against her shoulder blades, her ribs, the small of her back, stroking her gently. Gradually, her breathing grew more even and she rubbed her cheek against his chest with a snuggling motion that made him draw her closer still.

Mac felt the warmth of his hand against her jawline as he lifted her face and looked down into her eyes. Then his breath brushed warm against her forehead, followed by the gentle pressure of his lips. She breathed in and closed her eyes. She felt a fluttering kiss first on one eyelid, then the other. His lips brushed the skin along her left cheekbone, then her right, then the tip of her chin. As she leaned against him, feeling the solid strength of his chest against her breasts, she lifted her mouth to his.

Harm groaned and pulled back just a little, "Oh Mac, I can't…If I kiss you now, I…won't be able to stop." He took a deep breath and rested his forehead against hers. She pulled away just a little, resting the palm of one hand just over his heart. She could feel it thumping in his chest, almost as quickly and urgently as her own.

"And its not worth risking getting thrown in the brig," Mac sighed. 

Harm lifted his head and smiled down at her. With his left hand spread firmly against her lower back, he pressed her more tightly against him, so that she distinctly felt his arousal through the layers of uniform between them. "Hey, Mac, I wouldn't say that." 

He slid his right hand up along her ribcage and brought it to rest against the firm curve of her right breast, with a gentle pressure that made her breathing quicken. "On the contrary, I imagine it would be well worth risking a stint in the brig."

Mac laughed, then lowered her chin and took a deep, shuddering breath. When she looked back up at him, he saw she'd put on her most serious Marine face. She bit her lower lip. "But there's duty and honor…"

"Yeah, Mac. There's honor and duty…and love."

"Love?" Her voice sounded hopeful, but uncertain.

"That's what I meant when I said it was complicated. Heaven knows, Mac, I've wanted you one way and another since the moment I first laid eyes on you—"

"Diane," she whispered softly.

"Maybe for a little while—only at first. From day one you were different from any other woman I've ever known. Sure, I was attracted to you. Who wouldn't be? But you were—I don't know—you are so smart, so strong, so spunky. So much grit. Nobody's fool. Nobody's toy."

She shook her sadly. His hand was on her chin again, lifting her face so that their eyes met. "Hey, don't sell yourself short." He took a deep breath, then continued, "The truth is, I do love you, Sarah Mackenzie. And I want you. But not on the sly, not as just another good lay, and certainly not as some sort of conquest. We've got to be together in this. You're my best friend in the world, Mac, and the woman I belong to."

He held her close, swaying slightly. The rocking motion comforted them both. "I love you, Sarah. But with the kind of love that wants to cherish and protect. With the kind of love that means working side by side for a lifetime, with honor and faithfulness. Always."

"Harm, I love you, too. Always, " she whispered, her face against his shoulder. She nestled there for a moment, feeling safe, feeling as if, at long last, she really had come home.

Then he said, "You're tired, Sarah. What you need now is a warm shower while there's still hot water in the head, some comfy pajamas, and a good sleep." He was pulling away from her, reluctantly but firmly. "We've got to take our always one day at a time, Mac." He kissed her on the forehead, and was gone.

Scene Two: Keying Sequences

Legal Office One

USS Sea Hawk

Morning, Friday 20 December

Something had changed. Petty Officer Jennifer Coates couldn't quite put her finger on it. Before this morning, Commander Rabb and Colonel Mackenzie had always seemed to work together with an easy intimacy that she'd envied. They often sat shoulder to shoulder—like lovers—but keeping up a stream of banter and debate that made them seem oblivious to their physical proximity. This morning they had carefully positioned their chairs about a foot apart as they settled in for the morning's briefing. 

The odd thing was, they didn't seem tense or angry. If anything, they were treating each other with a studied courtesy. Maybe it was that Caldwell fellow. Maybe something had happened in country. As she poured coffee for the late-morning break, Coates asked Colonel Mackenzie. "So, how was it, Ma'am? Your peace mission, I mean."

Mac cradled her mug of coffee in both hands, staring down into the fragrant liquid as if she saw the last few days reflected there. "I'm glad I went, Coates. Even though those kids hadn't the ghost of an idea about Christmas, giving out those little brown paper bundles made me feel like Santa Claus."

"I bet anything you made a better Santa than I did," Coates grinned, "Ma'am."

"You had the better costume, from what I hear." Mac's eyes twinkled. "All I had was a desert camouflage utility uniform. No red hat, no white beard. Evans wanted at least an elf hat we could share, but we vetoed that. We didn't want to offend the villagers, especially since, by the Hijrah, we were coming in pretty close on the heels of Ramadan. Just to be on the safe side, we scheduled the trip well after the moon's new crescent." Mac's face grew pensive. "You wouldn't believe how happy those kids were about mittens and caps and sweaters. It was Christmas for us, but they were just celebrating warm clothes—"

She was interrupted by a knock on the hatch. It was Gray Caldwell, with his camera bag on one shoulder and a backpack on the other. Harm noticed with satisfaction that Gray's black eye was in that stage of fading when the bruise turns a sickening shade somewhere between rotting plums and green vomit. 

"Commander Rabb. Petty Officer Coates" Gray nodded to each of them, then turned to Mac. "Mac, I thought you'd like to know that the doctors think Ahmed and the other two boys are going to make it."

Seeing tears well up in her eyes, Harm reached out and touched Mac's arm gently, without a word. 

"That's great," Mac said, biting her lip. "And his arm?"

"They didn't have to amputate. He's lost the hand of course."

Mac nodded. Harm looked from Mac to Gray and back at Mac again. 

Seeing the look, Gray said quietly, "She hasn't had a chance to tell you yet? Pretty rough stuff. I'm sure Mac'll fill you in when she's ready. But you ought to know, Rabb, the Colonel's quite the heroine. She saved that kid's life. Mine, too." 

"Welcome to the club," Harm said. "How'd she manage to save your six?"

"Fought off a renegade Taliban supporter enraged by our infidel conduct."

"That's my Marine," Harm said, rubbing his hand lightly over Mac's shoulder. Despite the presence of witnesses, she didn't pull away. Noticing the gesture, Gray pressed his lips together in a rueful half-smile, and, without realizing it, sighed. The sigh wasn't lost on Harm. 

"Hey, Gray, want some coffee?" Somehow Harm suddenly felt he could afford to be magnanimous. As Mac watched the two men negotiate their unspoken truce, she felt a little fist of tension unclenching in her chest. 

After some talk of Qandahar, the ironies of peacekeeping, and the discomforts of Afghan roads, Gray mentioned an impromptu dance Evans and some of the others were getting up in the Officers' Ward Room that night. "If," as Coates said, "by tonight the Ward Room's got enough juice to run a CD player. Nobody's got a handle on these electrical problems yet."

"Hey, Mac," Harm gave Mac a sideways look and said with studied nonchalance, "whaddaya say we drop in on this dance?"

Mac pressed her lips together to suppress a decidedly un-Marine-like impulse to giggle, "Okay by me, Sailor."

Soon the conversation had rounded back to the Jameson case, the thefts, and the Sea Hawk's tech malfunctions. After Mac and Harm had filled him in on some of the dilemmas the evidence presented, Gray said, "Look's like you've got a puzzle with lots of pictures, but no key."

"No key," Coates repeated, wrinkling her forehead. "Why in heck didn't I think of it before? There should have been another key card with Jameson's things. It wasn't on the list. One of those need-to-know things. But he must have had one. Surely they wouldn't leave STARcom Two unlocked." 

"Coates," Harm said. "Get the MP's on the shipcom. We ought to check this out and we're going to need back up."

"Aye, Sir." Coates was punching buttons before he'd finished speaking. Then, the receiver to her ear, Coates frowned, jiggled the hook, and listened. "Sorry, Sir. But it's dead." 

As Mac told Coates to go for back up, the lights flickered, dimmed, flickered, went out. Despite the blackout, Gray's first instinct was to shoulder his camera bag. After a few seconds of darkness, the auxiliaries came on, casting just enough light for them to make their way through the hatch and into the equally dim corridor. There, the emergency lights cast an eerie red glow. 

"You ought to feel right at home, Caldwell." Harm murmured. "Now the whole damn ship's a darkroom."

Scene Three: Strength in Numbers

Tech Room 17

STARcom Two Support Terminals

Morning, 20 December

When Harm, Mac, and Gray got to the outer bay of the STARcom Two center, they found the hatch open. By the auxiliary lighting they could see the vacant computer terminals, and the large-screen wall monitors, scan-maps, and targeting displays. All dark, all silent. By the closed hatchway to the inner office, they could just make out two figures, one corpulent, the other of medium build. The big man on the left wore loose trousers, a flowing tunic, and a close-fitting cap; to his right, the smaller man slouched against the wall in a U.S. Navy officer's uniform. 

Harm motioned to Mac to stay with him as he crept along the shadow-lined wall toward the two figures, then nodded to her to take the smaller man. As he did so, Mustafa lunged forward, catching Mac off guard as Barak slid forward to block Harm's advance. After a brief scuffle, Mustafa was back against the wall, one arm cinched tightly around Mac's waist, another holding a narrow-bladed knife to her throat. 

Barak al-Barak's smooth voice cut through the darkness smoothly as a scalpel's edge. "As you see, Commander, if you take another step, Mustafa will gladly spill the blood of your infidel whore." Harm tensed, fighting for control of the rage he felt welling up in him. 

Then Barak reached over to open the hatch and Mustafa backed into the inner chamber, dragging Mac with him. Barak slammed the hatch shut after them. 

Harm sprang at Barak, pushing his bulk against the wall behind him. For a moment, Harm vividly remembered an inflated clown punching bag he'd had as kid. Ramming into Barak felt a little like that. But, like the clown, the man was weighted to recoil. He slammed a huge fist into Harm's diaphragm with a force that stunned Harm for an instant. That was long enough for Barak to get a firm hold on Harm's arms. Then, Harm felt himself being lifted, twisted, and flung face down on the floor. "I would have preferred a more poetic finish, Commander." For a large man, Barak moved with remarkable agility. He was at Harm's side in an instant, raising a booted foot above Harm's neck. "But whether by a flight from the fantail or the force of a boot, the broken neck of a dog is a broken neck." 

As the sole of Barak's boot brushed the back of Harm's neck there was a blinding flash, quickly followed by another. Barak flung a thick arm upward to shield his eyes from the photographer's flash and staggered backward. As he did, something that felt like a padded barbell struck Barak a solid blow between his right ear and his chin as his head connected with the packed camera bag Gray had flung at him.

Harm dragged himself to his knees, tasting the salty trickle of blood oozing from his nose. As Barak lunged back toward Gray, Harm tackled the big man at the knees, sending him over sideways. Barak's head struck one of the consoles and he lay still. Gray was already yanking lengths of electrical cord from the closest terminal to bind Barak's hands and feet. As he handed several lengths of cord to Harm, Gray said dryly, "I hate to think of the damages the Navy's going to assess against me on this one. But then, I plan to bill them for the repair of my cameras." 

"A zero-sum game." Harm said, jerking Barak's hands together behind his ample back, pulling the cord tightly around the man's wrists, and knotting it securely. Then, Harm motioned to Gray to stand at one side of the inner hatch. Harm moved to the other, then knocked loudly on the hatch door. When Mustafa opened it, the two men grabbed him, dragged him out, and—with surprisingly little resistance—trussed him up beside Barak.

Scene Four: Getting to Zero

Tech Room 17A

STARcom Two Terminal

Morning, 20 December

Harm was the first to slide through the door, but Gray was right at his shoulder. The slender young man at the computer terminal was focused entirely on the screen above him, his fingers moving expertly over the keys. He had his back to Mac, who was tied to a metal chair that had been shoved against the wall opposite the console. As Harm moved toward her, Mac shook her head, then nodded toward the large screen on the wall above the console.

Against a shimmering background of violet blue, lines of blue-white ones and zeroes pulsed softly. As Harm watched, the zeroes seemed to be cascading across the screen, spilling from one line to the next, with increasing speed--like water entering a bulkhead.

After a few seconds' pause, the Cipher turned his face toward Harm and Gray as slid his hands from the keyboard. "You are too late. Like Ali Baba I have not only found my way to the door, but I have found the word that opens this door to all your treasure." The young man's nostrils flared slightly. "STARcom, of course, talks not only to the bridge, to the other ships, to the planes, the helos, the drones, but to the womb of the missiles, deep in the belly of this ship." As he spoke, the Cipher tapped his fingers on the tops of his legs, as if they were a keyboard.

Harm wanted nothing more than to go to Mac and release her, to reassure himself that she was all right. But he knew that he needed to follow her lead. She was listening intently, her eyes focused on the slim young man whose clipped words filled the little room. "Of course, the missiles are sleeping. They must be armed in order to be dangerous. No problem, no problem at all. Everything I needed was already on this ship."

The Cipher turned his gaze back to the cascading waves of zeroes. Harm took a step forward. But Mac hissed, "No. Hear him out, Harm. We need a key. Some way in. It's all we've got."

Ignoring Mac's words, the Cipher turned back to Harm and Gray. "Mustafa has served his purpose well. I have made another little machine—of chips and wires and a child's toy. Mustafa has attached it to a very powerful missile. I have taught this little machine, too, to speak the language of death. When my little machine of numbers reaches the string of code for the munitions center, it will pause to speak with the little machine of chips and wires. Most convenient, the wireless technology. The great missile will detonate. There will be, as the American newscasters say, a chain of reaction." The Cipher bowed his head. 

Harm heard footsteps behind him. Coates was at the door with several M.P.'s Harm motioned them inside. As they pulled the Cipher from the console and handcuffed him, Harm knelt at Mac's side, drew out his clasp knife and quickly cut the ropes that bound her. Freed, she rubbed her wrists and flexed her ankles. "Thanks," she whispered, looking into Harm's eyes with more than gratitude. "It's okay," he murmured, lightly brushing his hand against her arm.

As the M.P.'s led the young man to the door, the Cipher spoke again, "The Sea Hawk is dead. No faithless one can find the word that closes the door of death. The STARcom listens only to the voice of the Cipher." He cast one last glance at the screen, and smiled.

"Should we keep him here?" Coates asked, "Make him stop it?"

Mac shook her head. "He's looking for martyrdom. He'd die before he told us."

Coates slid into the chair and began tapping at the keyboard. "Then we've just got to find that damn word."

"We don't have time," Gray muttered, "it could be anything."

"Or nothing," Mac said. "Maybe it's that—or 'cipher.' Try that."

Coates chewed on her upper lip as she continued to type. Then, "No Ma'am. I've found the box. The password has only four letters."

"Zero." Harm said. Four little clicks.

"Damn," Coates muttered. "That's not it."

"A cipher is a code," Harm said. Four little clicks.

"Nope." Coates said through gritted teeth.

"Null." Mac offered. Click-click-click-click. The zeroes flowed across the screen.

"Void." Harm countered. Coates's fingers danced over the board. The zeroes continued to advance.

"Try 'love,'" Gray said.

"Love?" Coates half-turned toward him. "Tennis," Harm said. "A score of zero," Mac added.

Click. Clickety. Click. Coates groaned. "No dice." 

The zeroes were moving faster, gobbling the strings of code as they swam onto the screen. Mac moved forward to place a hand on Coates's shoulder. Harm stood close to Mac, silently slipping an arm around her waist. Gray stood on the other side of Coates, his fists clenched at his side, his head bowed. The only sound in the room was the quick tense rhythm of their breathing.

Mac's voice broke the silence. "Try S…I…F…R." 

"S.I.F.R.?" Coates turned to give Mac a puzzled frown. 

"'Cipher' comes from an ancient Persian word for zero. 'Sifr' is the closest I can come in the Roman alphabet." Coates entered the letters with four sharp clicks. Zeroes continued to engulf the screen. Coates pounded a fist on the console. Mac sighed. Harm said nothing, but pulled Mac a little closer. 

Gray's head snapped up. "Backwards," he said. "Turn it around."

Mac nodded, "He's right. Try R…F…I…S."

Coates didn't stop to question. Click-click, click-click. A pause. 

The numbers on the screen froze. Then they began pulsing again. The flood of zeroes stood still, followed by normal patterns of zeroes and ones. 

"Bingo! We did it!" Coates leaped from her chair and gave Gray a hug that nearly took his breath away. Mac turned to Harm and slid her arms up over his broad shoulders. She brought her hands together at the back of his neck as he pulled her into him for a fervent, lingering embrace. Then, remembering the others, they pulled apart and straightened, but remained standing side by side, their shoulders touching. 

"How did you…" Harm began. Mac broke in with, "I should have realized. Arabic languages are written from right to left. He had to use our alphabet, but he entered the letters in the order that felt natural to him—that of his own language."

"Nice move, Gray." Harm stepped forward and slapped him on the shoulder. 

"We were all in this thing together, Rabb," Gray responded, smiling at Mac.

Mac reached over and gave Harm's hand a brief squeeze. Coates saw it, and grinned, "Man are we gonna celebrate tonight," she crowed. "But I bet there won't be one tech officer at that dance. They're going to be reprogramming this baby from now till next Christmas."

"Or at least till next year," Gray grinned at her. The overhead lights flickered, then came on. He looked at his watch, "Hey, folks, we missed lunch. What do you say to raiding the galley?"

"I'm all for that," Mac said. 

"Let's get going," Harm urged, "hungry Marines are no laughing matter." He chuckled, "And this one's especially dangerous on an empty stomach." He ducked aside as Mac aimed a playful punch at his ribs. Gray laughed and motioned for Coates to precede him out of the hatch. As they vanished into the tech bay, Harm paused a few feet short of the hatch. "We make a great team, Mac" he murmured as he pulled her close. "You can say that again, Sailor," she whispered. Then their lips met briefly, tenderly, in a kiss full of promise. 

Scene Five: Baby Believe

Officers' Ward Room

USS Sea Hawk

Evening, 20 December

When Harm and Mac got to the Ward Room, it was already packed. Though most of the ship's electricity was back in working order, the room's overhead lights were dim, so that the twinkling Christmas garlands looked more festive than they did in ordinary light. _A little like strings of stars, _Mac thought, happily. _Almost makes up for the fact that Harm has to leave for the Coral Sea tomorrow. But there's always Christmas. _Some of the tables and chairs had been removed and others pushed back against the walls to clear a makeshift dance floor, filled with people moving to the beat of a tune Mac didn't recognize. 

When he spotted them, Evans grabbed Harm's elbow and shouted over the din of the music, "We've got a table for you guys right over here." Harm kept a hand lightly on Mac's elbow as they steered their way around the edge of the crowd. Coates and Gray were already at the table for four and they both stood as Harm and Mac reached them. 

Suddenly the music stopped and Evans held his arms up, shouting out over the murmuring voices. "Hey gang! Our guests of honor are all here, so what do you say we give them a round of applause?" The hearty clapping was punctuated by cheers, huzzahs, and loud whistles. Mac felt herself blushing and saw Harm looking intently at his shoes. Coates wore a sort of deer-in-the-headlights expression and Gray was gripping the back of a chair with both hands, watching his own knuckles whiten. Then, mercifully, there was music and the dancing began anew. 

Gray turned to Harm, "You guys always this popular?"

Harm grinned, "Not by a long shot."

Gray smiled at Mac and turned to ask Coates to dance. As they melted into the crowd of dancers, Harm scooted his chair a little closer to Mac's. He looked at her as she watched the dancers, wondering how she managed to look so good in the short-sleeved khaki shirt and tailored slacks of her service uniform. No amount of tailoring could disguise the full curves of her body, and the short sleeves showed off the graceful curve of her arms. Just as he was about to reach for her hand--a gesture he hoped would be discretely screened by the table--Evans strolled over and set down two packages. "Caldwell asked me to deliver these," he said, then walked away. 

Harm motioned to Mac. "You go first." Her package was small, rectangular, not much bigger than a glove box, but a little deeper. It was wrapped in red tissue paper and tied up with a length of gold braid. Easing off the paper and opening the box she found a parchment-colored card resting on top of folded white tissue paper. Turning the card over, she read, 

" Dear Mac,

This is for Colonel Sarah from her not-so-secret admirer and devoted friend. I thought it only fair that your Commander get a chance to see you wearing it. I wish you both every happiness.

Most cordially,

Gray

P.S. If Rabb gives you any trouble, you just email me. Any time. Any where. I'll be back on the next plane to set him straight."

Mac laughed and handed the card to Harm. 

"You know, Mac, I ought to call him out."

"Oh Harm, get a grip." Mac chuckled. Then she unfolded the tissue paper to reveal a rose-colored silk scarf, edged in gold and embroidered with tiny gold leaves. "Oh," she said as she lifted it out of the box. "Oh."

Harm's package was also rectangular, but flat. As he tore off the green paper, he found a matted color photograph--a head shot of Sarah wearing a rose-colored silk scarf with designs in gold. Her gaze seemed to be directed toward something a long way off, and a subtle smile played at the edges of her lips. He didn't know whether she looked more like an angel or an Arabian princess. He did know that the photographer had captured something of the both the softness and strength of her face. And maybe a little of her loveliness. He turned the picture so she could see it. "It's a good likeness, Mac, but it doesn't do you justice." She smiled shyly.

"You know, that Caldwell grows on you after a while." Harm admitted.

"I knew you'd like him," Mac said, giving Harm's hand a gentle squeeze, "once you got to know him." Harm turned his hand palm up and held on to her hand, gently running his thumb back and forth over the soft skin. Her eyes looked darker and more luminous than ever in the subdued light. 

"Care to dance, Sarah? They're playing our song."

"I didn't know we had one, Sailor."

"We do now, Ninja Girl," Harm said, pulling her to her feet. 

As she settled into his arms for the dance, Mac heard Tish Hinojosa singing, " You look at me and I see a light shinin'/ Brighter than I've ever seen." Harm pulled her close and bent his head so that his cheek rested against her hair. He was grateful for the density of the crowd of dancers, the excuse to hold her near. "I'm learnin' about somewhere far deeper than I've ever been" he murmured into her ear, "Baby believe that I am." 


End file.
